GoLightly Fiction- Part 3 and 4

Och, what a day. Facts are so hard to deal with sometimes. I got positively enraged on Fugs blog, and of course I know why. There are things I still think aren't worthy of writing down, and yet my anger comes from not writing them down:) A conundrum. There are parts of this fictional story that are true, and of course, many many more parts that are not. Here's one fact about GoLightly, that isn't allowed to be in his fictional story. The real GoLightly did not have a real pretty head. He had a bit of a small eye. He had a good roman nose. I loved his old head:) He did have a thin mane and tail, like an appy's, THAT thin:)The Real GoLightly was NEVER called Golly by me. I called him LIGHTly", always accenting the "Light", in his name. He made me feel lighter than air, when I rode him the first time. We, for sure, just "fit". All the other horses I'd ever ridden before that, vanished, when I got on his back that first time. He taught me everything I'd ever wanted to know, about how a "broke" horse should go, in the first fifteen minutes. I got off, after flatting him for half an hour or so, and just cried. Happy, crazy crying. I'd been given the first gift of his knowledge. I'd been looking for it, riding for it, reading for it, and there GoLightly was, a master of horse. I loved him, for his great character, honesty and humour. He was a funny horse. I came up to ride him once, on a hot summer's afternoon. He was still out in the paddock, where there was one small puddle of water. I called out "Hi Lightly"! As soon as he saw me, he raced over to the puddle, rolled quickly on both sides, and got up, his nose up, laughing his fanny off. They call it the "flehmen" response. Uh-uh. GoLightly was laughing at me. Hard. I had to laugh with him, it was tooo cute. I wish I had more pictures of him. I counted, I have five of me jumping him, one of my trainer showing him, and one "For Sale" ad from the Chronicle, after he sold out of my ex-trainer's barn. In 1990, at 12 years old, GoLightly's new owner wanted $25,000.00 for him. If only I'd had the money.

Here's part three and four, of the fiction.

Part Three GoLightly - A Story of Hope and Love, and Luck

Golly’s first idea, when he was so rudely roused from his snoozing, was that his human couldn’t sleep, and needed his company to help her rest. He rose to his feet, shaking his head, snorting his mild indignation. Golly's eyes widened when he saw the face at the trailer door, familiar, but unexpected at that hour. The man spoke to him gently, and haltered him, leading him out to the waiting two-horse trailer. Golly followed willingly, trusting this man. Golly wondered at the tears falling from the man’s face, and nuzzled his shoulder, trying to comfort him. Simon was growling at the man, low and deep, and Golly was shocked at the sudden urgency in the mans’ voice, urging him onto the trailer. Golly walked on willingly, but felt a vague fear in his heart, not knowing why his Simon would be threatening the man. The man slipped a needle into his jugular, and quickly Golly slid down, sparing him at least, the sound of Simon yelping in pain.
Golly woke sharply five hours later, still in the trailer, stiff and bruised from his fall. A stranger woman’s voice spoke harshly to him, startling him to leap to his feet, snorting and trembling. Golightly's memories of his past life were instantly wakened at the tone of the woman’s voice. The woman grabbed at his halter dangling a lead-shank, and Golly struck out, his instinctive reaction to such a threat. The crack of hoof against knee set off a cacophony of barking from the kennels outside. The air turned blue with her angry obscenities, worsening the din, and terrifying Golly even more. His hooves began to shiver, and with her next attempt at capture, he threw his head up, simultaneously throwing his body backward, away from her threat. The van, an old two-horse rear-loader, needed repair, and Golly highlighted her next problem by snapping the rear-door latches in two, ending up on his fanny at the bottom of the ramp. Golly sprang to his feet, trembling all over, and galloped away from her as fast as he could travel.
“You idiot!” she screamed at her bewildered assistant. “Why didn’t you catch him?”
“I can’t catch that end.” mumbled the reply.

Golly’s flight to freedom actually saved his life, as the anesthetic they’d needled him with would have soon killed him. All horse’s guts need their natural movement to stimulate them, and his long, contorted sleep had left his insides ready for catastrophe. He galloped & galloped, his long strides eating up the ground, uncoiling the potentially fatal knots deep inside his body.

His new home was on one hundred acres, very well-fenced. The surrounding neighbours thought the woman just a little extreme, for the 6’ PVC/electric/wire/board fencing must have cost her a small fortune. However horse people are by definition slightly insane, and she certainly never let her horses get loose from their fields, or onto highways, a practice most of her neighbours appreciated. The woman ran a prison for horses.

March’s lion roared as the big bay ran and ran the perimeter of his prison. No-one tried to catch him. He finally slowed, and stopped, quivering with exhaustion. A gentle brogue asked “Hey, fella?” The gelding turned his head, and blew a long sigh, as he recognized his new friend for what he was. Golly's name wasn't spoken again for two years.

There wasn’t darkness at the big bay's new home, but that was about it for comfort. His new stable was the other end of the spectrum again. His narrow, standing-tie stall was narrow, and worn from other horses chewing away their boredom, his hay dusty, his water odd smelling. The “paddocks” were rings of chopped up heavy clay & sharp gravel. His tack was an ancient western saddle, and an old cavalry style bit, long shanked, high ported and vicious. He was in a riding horse factory, routinely drugged with tranquilizer, enduring overweight, &/or unbalanced &/or uncaring riders. The customers he was carrying didn’t know any different, although some of them might have cared, with just a bit of knowledge. All of them were city folk, first timers that came back for the purpose of bragging rights to their friends.
The gelding’s stablehand had some knowledge, but was powerless to improve the situation. Ian worked hard all day every day, but there were seventy horses, and he was only one man. He stayed because he loved horses, and he had nowhere else to go, having closed too many doors behind him. Ian had very little extra time and indeed wasn’t allowed any. But his calm presence soothed the big bay. If not for Ian, Gen wouldn’t have found Golly again. The big bay would have succumbed to the indifference. Horses live to be noticed, to be loved, to be touched.

Golly trudged around the gravelly rings, nose-to-tail. His skin chafed, his calluses allowed to grow. He had no indignation, he wasn’t fed enough to care anyway. Ian did what he could, and wondered at the sanity of his boss, Letitia, who added tranquilizer to the horse’s water every day. Ian didn’t argue with her, but did manage to slip the horse fresh water occasionally, risking the wrath of Letitia. He’d worked at the thoroughbred race track for a year after he’d gotten out of jail. It was all the experience Ian had with horses, although he was surprised at his own natural aptitude with them, a born horseman. The horses were grateful to him, and loved him. Ian was born with the horse-sense to save Golly’s life.
So Golly followed the leader, and felt vaguely ill, and tried his best not to touch the humans that clambered onto his back. He learned to hollow his back, and shuffle his feet and carry the human around with as little commotion as possible. He was a living caricature of what he’d been with Gen.
His skin suffered, but Ian finally found time to notice, and surreptitiously cared for the worst of the sores. The old western saddle pinched his withers cruelly, which grew his only white hairs, later in life. The heavy bit was his new owner’s deliberate pain infliction.
Letitia was a sour, crazy older woman, large and fierce. She’d been born into the horses, but hated them from the moment she could walk, as if she’d found her life’s work. She enjoyed burning noxious things, like cans and green weeds for the bad smell she could create for her horses. Her dogs were either tied or caged, and neglected to insanity. Her cats were emaciated and overpopulated. Her incredible ability to lie, her stable’s remote location, and her uncanny knack of remaining outside any circle that would report her, allowed her to maintain her own nasty little empire. She ate very, very well, as most animal abusers do.

Part 4
Jessie was trying very hard to be calm. Her anticipation and excitement made her shake and then stop herself. She was beside herself, but admonished by her own self too. Horses can sense excitement, she knew, and she did not want the first horse she ever rode to be as excited as she was. Jessie had been riding horses in her dreams for most of her twelve years. Her father laughed and said “Hey, calm down!! This may turn out to be nothing. That sign could be one hundred years old, and I’ve never heard of any horse places around here!”
“Please, Dad? We’ll just look, okay??”
He didn’t answer, for he’d just noticed the fencing, and was calculating its’ worth. Lots of dough here, he thought, his spirits rising. This outing was his ex-wife’s idea, and he’d agreed amicably enough, for she was his halfway house right now. Who knew? Maybe a buck would be made in here. He needed to find an honest line of work, at least until his parole was up.
He mused aloud, “I wonder how long this place has been here? I thought I knew all the barns in Ontario! Look at the size of that gate!! Are they breeding giant horses in here??”
They both fell silent, as the narrow tree-lined drive opened up to reveal a massive black barn with an attached outdoor ring and a huge indoor arena. Her dad whistled softly and said “Look, Jess! There’s a horse for you!”
Golly was next in line for rental, tied to the fence, dozing in his usual stupor. Jess gazed at him in awe, his size alone overwhelming her.
“What do you want?” barked Letitia, standing at the barn door. “This is private property!” she snarled, over the din of the dogs.
He put on his best sweet-dumb face and said “I’m real sorry to trouble you, ma’am. My daughter here has been begging for a pony-ride, and we saw your sign, and here we are.”
“We don’t have ponies here, but I guess you can lead her around on Hoss here, 30 dollars cash for half an hour.”
“He’s a bit big, isn’t he? Don’t you have anything smaller?” he asked, as nicely as he could, wishing suddenly they’d just kept driving.
“No! Take it or leave it, I haven’t got time for this garbage!”
“Okay, Jess?”
She nodded, holding her breath, and then she was up on the gelding’s back, sitting three miles above her father’s head, flying with her horse, a mere feather soaring across the fields. What felt like a second later, the woman was back, growling “Time’s up. Leave now.”
Jess, enraptured, speechless, smelled her hands in silence all the way home. She reverently placed her jeans and jacket, smelling of this precious, real horse, in her suitcase. The next morning, the heavenly scent was still there.
Her father, indeed something like a horseman, couldn’t get the farm out of his mind. He’d asked the fat, surly woman if she was looking for help, but the question only enraged her further. He wondered how she managed to feed all those horses. She obviously didn’t manage too well, as there was no fat anywhere, only on the woman. The horse Jess had ridden seemed too quiet, and he’d noticed the animal’s balance seemed a little off, as if it were weaving instead of walking. The shrieking dogs were ignored, and he’d been glad to leave. He’d seen dirtier, uglier places, but this farm had a bleak pall draped over it, a sour shawl. He decided to take his daughter to a more reputable place for their next day together, scheduled firmly by his ex-wife, who really was a good girl.