Wild Cat (3 page)

* Today I rode a pony for the first time. Only thing is, I always thought my first horse ride would actually be ON the horse.

I stop typing and stare at the screen so long that it powers down. My mind is powering down too. I need to get upstairs and back to bed.

I maneuver the mouse and hit Send.

For a minute, I stay where I am, gathering courage to tackle the stairs again. Going up is bound to be harder than coming down.

The computer slips into screen saver mode, triggering the slide show of photos back into action. The first picture that comes up is of me. I’m sitting on the lowest branch of the big oak tree out front. I look like a ghost. Pale face, my long blonde wig uncombed, white shorts and white T-shirt.

Just sitting there. Like now.

Just sitting there. Not doing a thing for anybody.

Just sitting there. Not looking anything at all like a real Coolidge.

Four

The rest of the night is filled with fitful dreams and flashes of sleep. Each time I wake up, there’s a second of panic before I make myself think of that psalm and picture God holding my hand. Then I drift back to sleep until it happens all over again.

A couple of times I sense people checking in on me. But it’s too hard to open my eyes.

It’s totally bright and sunshiny before I drag myself out of bed. Even the cats have bailed on me.

“You’re up at last.” Mom shuffles into my room in lime green tights and an oversize plaid shirt that fits snug around her middle. She’s still wearing her fuzzy red bedroom slippers.

“You look Christmassy,” I say, yawning in the general direction of her slippers.

“Do I?” She sounds pleased.

I squint at the cat clock and can’t believe the cat’s paws are at two again, only it’s two in the afternoon this time.

“Feeling any better?” Mom asks, hovering over me. “You need to get fluids in you, Kat.”

“My little Kat.” Dad rushes in and kisses the top of my head. I feel it, which means I don’t have my wig on. “One day closer to your adoption being final,” Dad announces. “Hungry? Which reminds me . . . Do you know what cats eat for breakfast?”

Mom elbows him, but she’s laughing already.

“What
do
cats eat for breakfast, Dad?” I ask.

“
Mice
Krispies! Get it?” He laughs so hard that he breaks into a coughing fit.

Mom slaps him on the back until he’s back to normal. “Come on. We’ll help Kat downstairs.”

“You guys go ahead. I can get downstairs on my own.”

“Don’t we know it,” Dad says.

Mom explains, “Your father played detective this morning. He deduced that you got up in the wee hours, drank some milk, and read your e-mail.”

“Not bad,” I admit.

“You have five new e-mails from Catman, by the way,” Dad says.

“Catman’s mother called this morning to make sure you were all right. We filled them in on your accident.” Mom pulls a curler out of her hair, letting the curl bounce across her forehead. “Your aunt Claire is quite a character. She was so upset I could hardly understand her. Bart had to take the phone from her. He said Catman had heard from you last night and was really worried.”

“You think Claire’s a character?” Dad laughs. “My little brother, Bart—now
there’s
a character for you.” Dad’s only a few minutes older than his twin, but he still calls Bart his little brother. Whenever Dad talks about him, his eyes get big like his head’s filling with memories. “That man tells the corniest jokes. Always has.”

“I’m sure he learned everything he knows from his big brother,” Mom says, hugging him from behind. Her arms don’t reach around.

“Do you get to stay home today, Dad?” I ask, pulling on my wig.

“No! What time is it?” He squints at my cat clock. “Oh my. I better get going or I’ll be late to the firehouse.” He comes over and kisses my cheek. “You sure you’ll be okay, Kat?”

I nod. “Thanks, Dad. I’m good.”

“Great. Then I’m off to the firehouse. Can’t wait to tell the guys the good news! In two weeks, Kat will officially join the long and distinguished line of Coolidges.” He takes Mom’s hand. “Walk me to the car, my Annie?”

Mom leaves with Dad. By the time I get myself cleaned up and dressed, I feel like going back to bed.

“Hey, Kat,” Dakota calls when I finally make it downstairs. “I was just heading out to the barn.” She has one hand on the screen door. Dogs and cats circle her feet, waiting for their chance to bolt.

“Hang on, Dakota.” I make my way toward her and try not to walk like a robot. “I wanted to ask you something about that pony.”

She lets go of the screen and meets me halfway. “I know. I’m sorry about that crazy animal. I never should have let you near that pony.”

“No. I wanted to help. It wasn’t your fault. Or his. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think I could help with him? I know I could handle him.”

Dakota lets out a sharp laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “You’re kidding, right? You want to
handle
the pony that dragged you across the barn?”

“That won’t happen again.”

“You bet it won’t. You’re not getting near that horse, Kat.” Dakota’s brown eyes narrow to dark slits.

Hank walks in. “What’s going on?”

“Hank, make her listen,” I plead. “Yesterday wasn’t that pony’s fault.”

He turns to Dakota. “Kat’s right. I think the chestnut’s pretty good-natured from what I can see.”

“Me too.” I’m relieved to have an ally.

“Fine,” Dakota says. “The chestnut is a peach of a pony. Kat’s still not riding it.”

“What?” Hank wheels on me. “You want to ride that horse?”

“I didn’t say that.” But I
would
love to ride him. “I just want to help with the pony. Is it so crazy to think I might be able to help you guys?”

“Yeah. It’s crazy,” Dakota says.

I take a deep breath and try again in a calmer voice. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” I stare into Hank’s blue eyes, counting on the fact that he has trouble saying no to people.

Hank tilts his head toward Dakota. “We do have our hands full.”

“I don’t believe this.” She sounds disgusted. “If you need me, I’ll be in the barn.” Wes’s three-legged Pomeranian slips out behind her before the screen door slams.

I grin at Hank. “I’ll do anything, Hank. I just want to help. And I promise I won’t do anything stupid like grabbing that lead rope.”

But Hank’s not looking at me. He’s staring over my head.

I turn to see Mom standing there. She’s frowning like she’s overheard everything.

“Mom, I didn’t know you were still here,” I admit.

“I noticed,” she answers.

“I’m not asking to work with the horses or ride them. I just want to help.” I think about trying to explain to her why this is so important to me. But I’m not even sure I understand it myself. I know it’s tied up with becoming a real Coolidge. But I can’t say that.

Hank speaks up first. “That chestnut pony is lame. We’re going to have to keep him in the stall for a few days at least. Kat wouldn’t have to set foot in the pasture.”

I could hug Hank for being on my side.

“Hank,” Mom says, “Kat wasn’t in the pasture yesterday, was she? When that horse dragged her around the barn? There’s plenty of room to get hurt in a stall.”

“But I won’t—”

Hank cuts me off. “Then she’ll stay out of the stalls, too,” he says.

“Hank!” I protest. “If I can’t even get near the pony, how am I supposed to help him?”

“Well,” Mom says, completely ignoring me, “I suppose if she doesn’t get in the stalls, she’ll be safe.”

“I’ll keep her out of the stall,” Hank promises.

“Hello? I’m right here. What can I do without getting into the stall?”

Hank grins. “You can give the pony his medicine, Kat. The vet says we have to give the Butazolodine twice a day. With everything else I’ve got to do around here, plus the extra horses, not to mention the fact that school starts Monday, I don’t need another chore. If you can take over this one, it would be one less thing I’d have to do.”

“Really, Hank?” I’m trying to read him. “You’re not just making this up so I’ll feel better?”

His forehead wrinkles exactly like Dad’s does when he’s paying bills. “Making what up? The horse needs meds. I hate that job. And I’m too busy to add one more thing.”

“And you
promise
Kat won’t get inside the stall with that horse?” Mom demands.

“She’ll just bute the pony in his feed twice a day so I won’t have to,” Hank explains.

“Please, Mom?” I beg.

Mom walks up to me and starts unwrapping the bandages from my hand. “Do you promise to keep a stall between you and that horse?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” Mom finally agrees.

I hug her. Then I hug Hank. “When do I start?”

“No time like the present,” Hank says. “You up for it?”

Truth is, all I’m up for is going back to bed. But I’m not about to tell them that. “Lead on.”

Five

“Hank?” He’s halfway to the barn before I can even clear the front porch.

“Sorry, Kat.” Hank jogs back. He sticks out his arm, and I take hold. His arms are thicker than my legs. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with the old sorrel. She’s been used up on the trails. I’d love to let her pasture with some yearlings. She’s got great manners in spite of everything. That gray mare is still a mystery to me. Not sure what’s going on with her. And the Pinto’s so scared that I’ll probably have to imprint her, start her all over again like a colt.”

I like that he’s talking to me about the horses as if we’re in this together. “If anybody can help these horses, Hank, it’s you. Or Winnie, of course.”

Hank grins. “Of course. Did I tell you Uncle Bart and Aunt Claire and Catman might come out here for Thanksgiving?”

“That would be great!”

“Yeah. Gram goes there every Thanksgiving. It’s time for them to come up here. Catman always acts like his cats couldn’t get along for a few days without him.”

“You’re the same way with your horses, and you know it,” I say.

We reach the barn. Seeing the sawdust brings back everything that happened yesterday. I look away and follow Hank to the tack room.

“I’ll show you where I keep the meds,” Hank says. “You can dump feed into the pony’s trough from the stallway.”

“I wish I could do more,” I say, half to myself.

“I’m not kidding when I tell you this helps, Kat. It’s a hassle to remember to give a horse medicine. I’ll be too busy with the other horses. The faster I get them fattened up and gentled again, the better chance we’ll have of finding good homes for them. It’s going to be tougher once school starts too.”

The tack room is about the size of my bedroom. Feed bins line one wall. Bridles hang on the opposite wall. A bunch of different kinds of saddles are stacked up on sawhorses. Gram Coolidge is always bringing over tack she’s picked up at an auction or at a barn sale.

Hank lifts the lid on a wooden box that’s sitting in the far corner. “You don’t have to refrigerate bute. Just keep it in here with the syringes.”

Syringes?
“This stuff comes in pills, right? No shots?”

Hank laughs. “No shots.” He pulls out a large white envelope and shakes a giant pill into his palm.

I can’t believe how big the pill is. Bigger than a quarter and three times as thick. “Hank, how can you expect that poor little pony to swallow
that
?”

He bites his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. “We’ll crush it up first, Kat.”

“Crush it up,” I repeat. “Good call.”

He glances around the tack room, spots an empty coffee can, and sets it on the old school desk Gram Coolidge found last fall at a garage sale. “You can crush it up in this.” He hands me the pill and the can, then stands back.

I try to break the pill in half. It won’t break.

Hank takes the pill back. He gets a pair of pliers from the toolbox. Then he holds the pill over the coffee can. “This will be easier for you. Pinch off pieces all the way around, like this.”

Snip, snip, snip.
Pieces of the pill drop into the coffee can. “There.” He sets the pliers down. “You can do the other pill. Two pills in the morning. Two in the evening. Got it?”

I stare at the white, chalky dust in the bottom of the can. “Won’t it taste horrible?”

“I never tried one, but it probably does,” Hank admits. “Which is why you mix it with oats. Okay?” He nods and starts to leave.

“How much oats?” I know I’m bugging him with too many questions. But I don’t want to do it wrong.

Hank’s about as patient as they come, but he sighs. “Two of the scoops, Kat. They’re in the green bin with the oats. And leave the scoop in the bin when you’re done. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Hank heads for the door, but he turns back. “Second thoughts?”

“Not on your life, cowboy.” I pick up the pliers and wave good-bye to him.

Once he’s gone, I shake out the second pill. I position the pliers just like Hank did, hold the pill over the can, and squeeze.

Nothing happens.

I try again. I squeeze harder. And harder. My hand aches. My shoulder hurts.

“I can do this,” I mutter. I use both hands and every bit of muscle.

Dakota sticks her head into the tack room. She’s got her horse, Blackfire, by the reins. “Everything okay in here?”

“Great. Thanks, Dakota.”

She doesn’t look like she buys it, but she leaves.

This is ridiculous. I try everything, including beating the stupid white pill with the pliers. It doesn’t even crack.

How can I be so useless? I can’t even break a pill.

God, I don’t suppose You’d like to have lightning strike this pill? Or a tiny earthquake, maybe?

Nothing happens.

Didn’t think so.

Then I get an idea. Hank has hammers hanging on the wall, neatly organized by size. I pull one down and raise it over the pill. “Great idea, Kat,” I mutter, “if you really want to splatter medicine all over the tack room.”

But if I had a plastic bag . . .

I check to make sure Dakota and Hank are in the pasture. Then I make my way to the house and get a box of plastic sandwich bags. Back in the tack room, I drop the evil pill into the bag, sealing it and then double-bagging it to be safe.

“Here goes.” I lift the hammer with both hands and bring it crashing down on the pill. It breaks into several pieces, all of them staying inside the bag. “Gotcha!” I exclaim.

A few more well-placed whacks, and that pill is dust. I empty the bag into the coffee can with the pill Hank crushed. Then I dump in oats and shake it up. The white powder blends in with the oats, making it look like cookie mix before you put the butter in. The whole thing smells too familiar. Not like cookie dough, though. More like the hospital. I sure hope horses don’t have a great sense of smell.

Holding out my precious bute mixture, I walk to the stalls. When Hank and Dad started Starlight Animal Rescue, they rebuilt the whole barn, designing the stalls so horses could see out as much as possible. The top of the stallway door is always open so horses can see us coming. The back of the stalls on this side of the barn open into the pasture.

The pony’s back stall door is shut on the bottom, but the top is open. Through it, I see Hank cantering Starlight in the pasture, the Paint’s tail flowing behind her. Dakota and Blackfire are trotting after them, with the gray mare on a lead behind her.

The pony is standing alone and silent in his stall, his neck so low his nose almost touches the straw bedding. I want to go in and put my arms around his neck. But I won’t.

“We have to get you well so you can play with the other horses, Pony. And I can’t keep calling you Pony, either. You need a name.”

Kitten climbs the gate, then pounces on my shoulders. She rubs her face against my cheek and purrs.

“I love you too, Kitten. Help me think of a name for this skinny pony.” It hurts to see his ribs poking out from his dull coat. I know there’s a beautiful chestnut under that dusty brown. “Chestnut.” I roll the name around in my mouth. “What do you think, Kitten?”

Kitten kneads my shoulder with her paws. Her sharp claws hurt a little, but I know she only does it because she loves me.

“It’s settled, then. We’ll call you Chestnut.”

I shake the coffee can to get the powder off the bottom. Chestnut’s ears perk forward at the rattle of oats in the can.

I reach in and dump the whole oat mixture into the trough. “Come and get it.”

He doesn’t.

I step back in case it’s me he’s afraid of. “Come on, boy.”

Chestnut steps cautiously to the trough and lowers his head. His nostrils flare. He lips at the mixture. Then he snorts. White powder flies everywhere. Chestnut jerks up his head and backs away.

“You have to eat it.” I try mixing the oats again and hiding the white powder in the trough. It can’t be done.

Chestnut stays at the rear of the stall. He won’t even try. And I know he’s hungry.

“Kitten, I am a complete and total failure.” I must have done something wrong, or he would have eaten the oats. I wish I knew more about horses. The last thing I want to do is ask Hank and make him come in from the pasture to do my little job.

“Winnie!” That’s it! If anybody in the world could help me with this, it’s Winnie the Horse Gentler.

Kitten jumps off my shoulders as I head for the house. My brain’s spinning. I could call Winnie. But I don’t know her number, and I don’t want to ask anybody for it. I could e-mail her. But what if she doesn’t check her e-mail for hours? Chestnut needs his medicine now.

Then I remember. It’s Saturday. Catman is probably on the road, filming his cat-umentary. But Winnie and Eddy Barker should be at the pet store right now, answering questions on the Pet Helpline. If I hurry, I could still catch Winnie.