Mabel

Mabel was a dutiful, 25-year-old, coal black,

Shire, the tallest of the draft horse breeds.

My great-uncle bought her from a neighbor

from up on Clutts’ Hill, led her 10 miles

over Union Ridge, down Crab Run, and

up to the head of the holler on Turkey Creek.

Her final destination.

When I was 9 years old, maybe 10,

I visited our old plow horse

in the hot summer evenings, and

sprayed her with a fly-killing

DDT-based mixture from a metal canister,

holding my breath until I saw stars.

I swatted billows of tormenting horse flies.

Poor Mabel constantly swished her tail and

stomped her hind legs up and down, scattering

those green-headed demons.

It seemed so hopeless, truly futile--- at least to me.

Yet she remained calm and serene.

Or overwhelmed.

Mable grew friendly with me.

She would mosey up to the pasture gate as I approached and

nuzzle my closed fist holding treats:

apple slices, carrot bits, celery, and peppermint candy.

Then one evening, I climbed over the wooden gate

grabbed her mane, up onto her bare back.

She hated to be ridden. I knew that.

I had betrayed Mabel’s trust.

She tolerated me on her back a few more times,

then no longer greeted me.

Offers of apples, peppermints, and

horsefly swats were scorned.

I was scorned.

One evening, a few feet out of reach,

she eyed me with:

“What a little jerk you turned out to be.”

She was right, of course.

And I have always regretted it.

-Greg Clary