The Georges and the Jewels Read Free Page B

would go, Mom stood inside with Jewel, and Daddy ranged around behind the foal, not driving it, but being a barrier if it wanted to go away. The key was to let the mare call him andlet him find her. Even though it took a few minutes for him to make up his mind to go through that scary doorway, and even though her nickers got just a little louder and more nervous, neither one did panic, and pretty soon we had them locked in the stall. If you ask me, the mare looked relieved. She had a nice clean bucket of water and she drank about half of it. The colt gave us a stare and then started to nurse.
    Mom said, “Did you look around down there?”
    Daddy shook his head, then said, “You two should do that. It’s time she learned.”
    “What?” I asked.
    Mom said, “We’ve got to go down the hill and look around for the bag and placenta. We’ve got to see if all the placenta came out.”
    “I guess you’ll tell me what that is when we get there.”
    “You know what that is. It’s what feeds the baby through the umbilical cord when it’s inside the mother. If any of it stays inside the mare, she can die.”
    “Let’s go!”
    But the placenta was there, lying crumpled in the grass. Mom carefully laid it out, fitting together the pieces we could find the way you would a jigsaw puzzle. “Seems complete,” she said. “We had a mare once—” But then she decided not to tell me that story, and so I knew it was a bad one.
    “Daddy doesn’t like the foal.”
    “A foal is a lot of work. And a colt is more work. A big lively colt is the most work.”
    When we got back up the hill, Daddy said, “Well, I guess if you aren’t going to school today, you’d better start riding.”
    I rode the pony George first. Daddy said that there usually wasn’t much market for a pony, but when someone needed one, then a pony was exactly what they needed and the only thing. Our pony was medium-sized—he came up about to my chin (all the horses were taller than I was by at least an inch or two). Once the spring rolled around, Daddy thought he could sell that pony to some people who had an English riding school out on the coast. In the meantime, no pony burned much hay—in fact, you had to be really careful about giving a pony too much feed or it would founder, which is when a horse’s feet get hot and swell inside the wall of the hoof, except there’s nowhere for the feet to swell to but down through the sole, so the horse (or pony) can get crippled and die.
    I rode the pony around the ring with the English saddle, walk, trot, canter, turn right, turn left, back up, go in a big circle, go in a little circle. Three days a week of this was enough for the pony. Once I had untacked him and picked his feet and put him back with the other Georges, I went and peeked in the stall.
    The foal was lying down, his back legs folded underneath him and his front legs stretched out. He had his nose on his knees and his eyes closed, but then he lifted his head and looked at me, his ears flicking back and forth. The mare nickered to him, a low ruffling sound, and he put his nose up to her. She touched it with her own, then took another bite of her hay. Behind me, Mom said, “Now, it’s okay to look at them, but you let him and her get to know each other for three or four days before you introduce yourself. Sometimes if you get between a mare and a foal and get your smell on the foal, she’llreject him.” The foal flopped over and stretched out in the straw. His legs looked incredibly long and thin, loose, like noodles. If I hadn’t seem him jump around on them, I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible.
    After the pony, I rode the other Jewel, then the chestnut George. They were little girl material all the way. Then Daddy said, “Okay, Abby, get up on that one again.” He tossed his head toward Ornery George.
    “I thought you were going to ride him a couple of times.”
    “My back hurts. My feet hurt.”
    “I don’t believe