Dreams of a Dancing Horse (4 page)

 

8

How Now, Brown Cows?

I run all night. Hearing Lena's voice in my head, I don't stop running until I cross into the next county, and the next, and the next.

On and on I journey, munching on weeds by the side of the road, stealing sips of pond water here and there. All that keeps me going is my mother's song in my heart:

Dance, dance, dance, Federico!

Dance, dance, dance to your own special song.

Sway and spin. Let the music in.

And the world will dance along.

Dream your dreams, Federico!

Dream your dreams, and of course,

Soon you'll shine like the stars above—

Federico the Dancing Horse!

I try not to think of Lena. It's too painful. Yet when her face flashes before me in all its kindness and gentleness, I pray that she will come to realize and believe that she was born to dance. And I hope she will find the courage to dream her dream and the good fortune to see it come true.

For days I wander aimlessly. I walk for miles with no house, no human in sight. And very little water. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. The sun looms large overhead, blinding me. It's all I can do to stay on my feet.

I am about to give up, to lie down and go to sleep, when I see a fence. Whenever there's a fence, there has to be something inside worth keeping in. I focus on the fence and head for it as the sun begins to drop in the sky.

Grass! I see grass on the other side of the fence. It must be a pasture of some sort. And there, perhaps a dozen horse-lengths inside the pasture, is a pond. Not a scum-floating pond either. A clear, sparkling-water pond.

The fence extends farther than the eye can see.

A song Lena and I danced to at our favorite church pops into my head:
So high can't get over it, so low can't go under it, so wide can't get around it. Gotta get through that fence.
I'm unsure about the correct lyrics, but I am sure of one thing. I must get inside that pasture.

After another minute attempting to think when my brain is parched, I know I have to jump that fence. I admit I've never been much of a jumper. At one of the stables where I lived when I was a colt, they had lean, beautiful jumpers, who could sail over gates and fences in figure-eight patterns. It appeared to be such fun that I had to try it. And one day I broke loose from my stall and attempted the bar jump. I nearly broke my leg.

But this is not for fun. This is for survival.

I snort a time or two and paw the ground. Then I take a run at the fence and jump. Up, up I go.

My left forefoot catches the top rung and flings me back. I stumble and fall to the ground, rolling down, sliding down, down, and into a ditch.

I lie there until I catch my breath again. I ache all over, but I don't think I've broken anything. I must get up. I must push myself onto my feet and try again.

It takes me three attempts to stand on my own four hooves once more. How am I ever going to make it over that fence? It looks bigger than it did the first time.

For a moment I simply stare at the fence as it seems to grow right before my eyes. My hooves are frozen to the ground, and my legs are shaking.

Then in my mind, I hear a humming. Lena's voice echoes in my head, and one of her favorite melodies from
Swan Lake
resounds throughout my body as I remember. Lena used to twirl and swirl, then run on her tiptoes and jump. How high that little girl could leap into the air!

With Lena's hum pounding in my head, I twirl, then swirl, then take off at a full gallop. Picturing Lena in the air, I jump as if to meet her there.

And I sail over that fence!

As soon as I land in the lush green grass, I take off for the pond. I think I hear a cry from somewhere nearby, but I don't slow down until my muzzle is deep into that clear, refreshing water. I drink and drink and drink until I must come up for air.

“That's the one!” cries a tiny voice. “He jumped right over me. He scared me.” The voice breaks off into crying.

I look up and see a small brown cow, a calf. The only white is on his forehead.

Several other cows step up beside the little fella. They're mostly brown as well, except for one brown-and-white version.

One of the larger brown cows speaks. “Aw, will you stop your crying, Moony? I can't hear myself think.”

“Yeah. Don't have a cow!” The brown-and-white cow moos with laughter. Some of the other cows laugh too. “My son always milks it for all it's worth.” She cracks up at her own joke.

I manage to smile along. I am quite the outsider here. “I apologize for scaring your little boy,” I say, making a slight bow. “I haven't found a drink for days, I fear. And your pond was more than I could resist.”

“Mama,” the little one whines, “he doesn't look like a cow.”

“He doesn't seem like a cow horse either,” says one of the brown cows.

The pasture grows silent. And then from nowhere appear reinforcements. Dozens of cows poke up their furry heads and regard me with big cow eyes filled with suspicion.

“I assure you I mean you no harm,” I say.

They step closer.

I take a step back. While it is true that I am at least twice as big as any one of these cows, it is also true that I am vastly outnumbered.

The cows have me at fifty to one.

 

9

Home on the Range?

The brown-and-white cow steps up closer. “I'm Bessie, and this here's my boy, Moony. This old cow is Jingles, my friend.”

When Jingles nods, the bell around her neck rings, making it evident where she got her name.

“No, sir. I reckon you're more of a plow horse than a cow horse,” Bessie says.

“I have been known to pull a few plows in my past,” I admit. “Though I do not consider myself a plow horse. Others call me Fred, but I call myself Federico.”

“Well, Fred, welcome to the Lazy Roots and Wings Ranch. Let me ask you a question. What did one cow say to the other cow?”

I'm aware that this might be some sort of test or trick, so I take my time thinking of an appropriate answer.

But before I can hazard a guess, Bessie answers her own question. “What did one cow say to the other cow? Moo!”

This time I join the cows with a big horse laugh. Every time Jingles laughs, her bell rings.

“If you don't mind my asking, why do you wear that bell, Jingles?” I ask.

Jingles starts to answer, but Bessie beats her to it. “Because her horns are broken!” she says.

Everyone except Jingles laughs.

The sun has set, and I'm so tired I can barely graze. But the grass is tall and rich, so I do.

“Well, aren't you the lawn-mooer!” Bessie declares.

I grin, my mouth full of long green grass. These are such nice cows that I wouldn't mind spending time with them. The thought occurs to me that perhaps I could make my home among these kindly cows. “Do you think the owners of your ranch would mind if I spent some time with you here?” I inquire, once my mouth is no longer full.

“I don't rightly know,” Jingles answers. “I'm afraid they wouldn't have much use for a plow horse. And the head driver is a hard man.”

“You think he's hard?” Bessie challenges. “You should have grown up on the ranch I was born to. Now, that was hard.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Were they so mean to you?”

“Not so much that exactly. It's just that I grew up on the Lazy Double-Q, Williamson Bar-B-Bartholomew Ranch. That brand was a killer!”

I'm fairly confident from the laughter that Bessie is only joking about such a long brand.

Moony ventures up to me. “Good thing you're laughing at my ma's jokes, Mr. Fred. 'Cause if you don't, she'll
cream
you.”

Bessie explodes in laughter and pride at her son, who's already following in her hoof-steps.

That night I nestle in with the cows, most of whom choose to sleep standing up, as I nearly always did at Quagmire Farms. But I am so tired, and they all seem so friendly, that I let myself lie down.

Moony stays close, and so does his mother.

“There you are, Bessie.” A big brown cow joins her. “Where've you been, girl?”

“To the mooo-vies, of course,” she answers.

The big cow doesn't laugh, but eyes me up and down. “Where's your bull?”

“Dozin',” she says. “Bull-dozin'. Get it?” When Big Cow doesn't laugh, Bessie whispers to me, “Don't mind her. She's just got herself a case of the mad cow disease.”

The big cow shakes her head, but laughs this time.

Bessie introduces me to her friend, Big Sal, and to another cow, called Natasha. “Natasha is a Russian cow. She comes all the way from Mos-cow.”

“So, how many jokes has our Bessie made you sit through, Fred?” Sal asks.

Bessie answers for me. “How do you expect poor Fred to know? He doesn't have a cow-culator.”

Sal shakes her head and wanders off.

“You all seem like a nice bunch of cows,” I tell Bessie.

“Not a bunch,” Bessie corrects. “Herd.”

“Heard of what?” I ask.

“Herd of cows, of course,” she counters.

“Why, of course I've heard of cows,” I say.

“No! A cow herd!” Bessie sounds frustrated with me.

“Now, what do I care what a cow heard? I have no secrets from cows.”

Bessie erupts in the loudest laughter yet. “You got me, Fred! Good one!”

That night Bessie is still telling jokes as I drift to sleep. “Knock knock.”

I rouse myself enough to play along. “Who's there?”

“Cows go,” Bessie says.

“Cows go who?” I supply.

“No, silly. Cows go moo! You really aren't a cow, are you?”

The last joke I remember hearing is, “Why did the cow jump over the moon? To get to the Milky Way!”

In the morning I wake up to the low murmur of the cattle. They're all moving about, shuffling and stirring. Something is definitely up.

“What is it?” I ask Bessie.

“Word is just in. The cowpokes plan to move us up to the North Country. Cattle drive starts this morning. And that means that you, Federico, need to get moooo-ving!”

 

10

Cattle Drive—Cowpoke Jive

All around us cowboys whoop and holler from the back of their quarter horses. The horses are athletic and quick, not to mention fast. They race to the far ends of the field, herding stragglers toward the center.

I have no idea what to do or where to go.

“Can Fred come with us?” little Moony asks.

I look to Moony's mother, Bessie, and realize that I would very much enjoy accompanying this herd of my new friends. I believe I'm starting to understand the meaning of those famous lyrics:
“Home, home on the range.”

Jingles shakes her head, setting her bell jingling and jangling. “Fred can't come on a cattle drive, not unless he's a cow.”

But Bessie's cow eyes have a mischievous twinkle. “Then we'll just have to make Fred an honorary cow.”

I follow every direction Bessie gives me.

“You're brown like a cow,” she says, sizing me up. “And you've got four legs. But that's about all we've got going for us. Just keep your head down. And whenever those cowpokes start poking around, you'll have to bend your knees and make yourself short. Got it?”

“Got it,” I agree.

Bessie turns to the other cows in mooing distance and shouts, “What do you say, you cows? Can we gather around our new friend and make him one of the herd?”

Consenting moos sound across the pasture. Cows close in from all sides, placing me in the center, farthest from the wranglers. I am touched that they wish to do this for me.

And there's something I wish to do for Bessie, something I've thought about during the night. “Bessie, I've been meaning to tell you something.”

“This better not be a joke,” she warns.

“I'm completely serious,” I assure her. The herd moves forward, and we inch along with it. “I believe you could be the world's first comedy cow.”

“What?” Bessie stops. Cows bump into her.

I urge her forward again. “You're by far the funniest cow I've ever met, and I've never encountered a horse with a better sense of humor. You should be telling jokes onstage and making people—and animals—laugh. All you need is a translator. I think you'd be grand!”

Bessie grows more serious than I would have thought possible. “I can't believe you said that, Fred. I used to dream about being a comedian.”

“You can do it, Bessie!” I tell her. “You were born to tell jokes.”

The day wears on, and the cows work to keep up my charade. They crowd together, keeping me in the center whenever a cowboy rides too close. Bessie gives me the cue to squat down when necessary.

We trot mostly. When there are no humans around, we talk and walk a bit. I hear more cow jokes than we have cows in this cattle drive. And I am most grateful for my new friends.

Toward afternoon, I tell Bessie and the cows closest to me about Lena. I try to describe the beauty and grace of her ballet. I miss my friend.

Several times I fear that I have been discovered by a cowpoke who stays too long near us and looks too hard my way. Bessie sees it too and calls the other cows into action. Then they stamp their hooves and stomp the ground until we're all covered in a cloud of dust and dirt that forces the cowboys to ride elsewhere.

The sun sets, and still they drive us. Finally, we slow to a walk, then a standstill.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, fearing they're coming to get me at last.

“No,” Jingles answers. “Now we get to rest up for our journey tomorrow.”

We find a good spot under a tree that looks unfamiliar to me. Its leaves are broader than trees I know, greener too. Grass here is soft and long, with thick blades that taste like spring. For a good hour, we graze in silence, the only sound the tinkling of Jingles's bell and the laughter of the cowboys in the distance.

Smoke puffs up from the cowboys' campsite. Then the low flames of a campfire dance and rise into the cool night air.

Before long, a million stars are shining down on us.

“Fred, did you mean what you said about me doing comedy for a living?” Bessie asks. She says it as if she's been chewing on it our whole journey.

“Every word, Bessie,” I say. “You are without a doubt the most amusing creature on four legs—perhaps on two—that I have ever known.”

Bessie glances up toward the stars. The glow of the campfire splashes her cheek with light. “I'll do it, Fred. When we reach the North Country, Moony and I will set out on our own. I'll be a real cow comedian.”

Suddenly, I hear a twang coming from the cowboy campsite. Then a note. And another. A strumming …

“Are you all right, Fred?” Bessie asks. “There's something odd about your eyes. I'd say they have stars in them, but—”

“What is that?” I ask, every hair on my hide electrified and standing at attention.

“That?” Bessie says, glancing toward the campfire. “Why, that's mooo-sic.”

I listen, and she's right. One cowboy strums his guitar, and the second cowboy plays his harmonica. The music is soft and dreamy, and before I know it, it's lulled me to sleep. Even asleep, I can hear the notes inside my head.

I wake with a start. The music has changed. I must not have dozed long, but the campsite has come to life. Guitars are blaring, harmonicas zipping, tambourines jangling. Hands are clapping and boots stomping.

And they're playing the “Hokey Pokey.”

I bound to my hooves and rear up. Lena and I danced to this song at our very first hoedown. I can almost see Lena dancing to the tune.

I can't stop myself. I hear Bessie, Jingles, and the others mooing for me to stop, to come back. But I can't. I'm galloping toward the flames, toward the music. I turn myself around. I put my left hoof in. I put my left hoof out. I put my left hoof in, and I shake it all about.

Bessie and Jingles follow me to the campsite, mooing.

I know what I'm doing is foolish. And yet, I can't stop myself. I'm on my hind legs, shaking myself about to the beat of the music.

“There he is!” yells a young cowboy. “See? I told you there was a wild horse in the herd.”

The music stops.

For a second, I stay in the air, on my hind legs, staring at the cowboys. Then I crash down and look over at Bessie. Her face tells me I've really done it this time.

“After him! If he's wild, he's probably loco!” cries a cowpoke.

“Of course he's loco!” shouts an old codger of a cowboy. “Why else would he come this close to the campfire?”

“Well, don't just stand there!” shouts the one I think is the trail boss. “Get him!”

“Run!” Bessie hollers.

Finally, I snap to my senses.
Run!
I lower my head and take off at a gallop.

The cowboys jump on their horses to come after me. Those quarter horses are the fastest in the world for a quarter mile. And they're not exactly slow after that. They'll catch me before I'm out of the herd.

But the herd has other plans.

Jingles and a pack of her friends trot off to the west, forcing one of the cowboys to turn back and bring them in.

Moony and some of the calves frolic east. Another cowboy turns back.

The entire herd splits into miniherds, and they head in all directions.

“What in blazes is going on?” yells one of the cowhands.

I keep running. Only the trail boss is on my trail. He's closing in. I glance back and see him whipping his lariat, circling it over his head.

Then just as it seems he'll catch me for sure, Bessie appears. She strolls leisurely between us.

“Move!” yells the trail boss. “Get out of the way, you crazy cow!” He yanks his horse to a grinding halt so he won't ram into her.

I look back. Bessie winks at me and begins to graze.

I know I have to go. But before I do, I shout back to her, “I'll see you onstage one of these days, Bessie!”

Then I take off at a gallop, wondering how many other friends I might have to leave in this life.