Gunner (8 page)

If some things had been torn apart by Katrina, friendships had been forged and strengthened. The people who had worked alongside Heather at Touro Hospital for all those desperate months had become as close as family to her. They knew each other’s stories and had shared many tears, hugs, laughs, and life-changing moments together. One of these friends, Brent Becknow, had heard Gunner’s story and was keen to meet this miracle horse. One day, in June 2006, he finally did, and it would mark a new beginning for Heather and Gunner.

It was a pleasantly warm afternoon, and Gunner was out
in his field with Buttermilk, grazing contentedly like a horse that’s never known a care in the world. Brent was not a horseman and admitted that he would not have been able to pick Gunner out from any of the other horses. He could see nothing wrong with him from where he stood. He was certainly striking … his gleaming golden coat with its odd splashes of white caught the eye, but beyond that, he saw nothing unusual. At least, not until Heather called to him.

At the sound of her voice, his blazed head shot up and turned so that one fierce blue eye faced them. The look was intense and, for a second, Brent felt goose bumps rise on his arms. Gunner arched his neck and, tossing his pretty head, nickered deeply, breaking into a trot to meet them at the fence.

As Brent watched the greeting between Heather and her horse, he saw, for the first time in his life, what a horse/human partnership – one might even say
friendship
– looked like. Without words, the pair was communicating clearly, and the affection between them was unmistakable. It wasn’t merely human affection for an animal that was owned, but a genuine affection for a partner and friend, and Gunner returned it in kind.

To Brent’s further amazement, Heather and Gunner began what looked to him like some sort of a dance. She
moved a hand; he took a step back. She stepped to one side; he stepped the other way. She turned and jogged down the fence line; he immediately broke into a brisk trot and followed at her side. She turned; he turned. She faced him and he stopped, alert to her every move. She pointed a toe, and he shifted a hoof. Brent was spellbound.

“What was that?” he asked when Heather was once again beside him.

She laughed self-consciously and answered, “Oh, it’s just a bit of showmanship stuff. We mess around with it all the time. He seems to like it. He’s always liked to play games like that.”

“You mean that’s the sort of thing you’d do at a show?” Brent pressed.

“Yes, sort of … in the showmanship class at least. It’s all about anticipating each other’s cues and moves. It’s fun. It’s too bad that his show days are over. He was really good.”

Brent looked puzzled and asked, “Why are they over? He’s looking great from what I can see. Why don’t you take him back?”

Heather frowned. “Not with that eye,” she answered. “Things are different now. Besides, chasing titles? What does that even mean anymore? It’s hard to remember
why it was so important, somehow.”

Brent thoughtfully watched Gunner, walking quietly back to Buttermilk. Things might have changed for everyone, but he believed in jumping right back into life if things were ever to be normal again. He knew Heather had been through a lot in these past months. They all had. But here was her chance to start again. He said no more then, but a plan was forming in his mind.

Two weeks later, Heather was herded into the staff room at the hospital. She found herself surrounded by a group of grinning friends. Brent’s smile was the widest of them all.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

One of the ladies handed her a card. “An early birthday present,” she announced.

Heather looked from the eager faces around her to the card in her hands. Half expecting something to explode or pop out of it, she opened the envelope slowly. Inside the card were papers with the World Paint Show emblem on the letterhead. She glanced over the contents, and then looked up, puzzled.

“I don’t get it,” she said, looking straight at Brent. “I told you I’m not going to the Worlds this year. Why did you buy my entrance fee? I don’t have a horse to enter.”

“Yes, you do,” said Brent confidently. “You have
Gunner! We entered you and Gunner!”

Heather was dumbfounded and, at first, could hardly comprehend what her friend was suggesting. She decided to phone Mike Stable and see what he thought.

“Great! I’ll meet up with you there. I’m taking a few in,” said Mike.

“But Gunner’s still underweight and he’s not fit and … his eye! He hasn’t had a saddle on him in almost a year,” Heather argued.

“Well, get a saddle on him. Just come and have fun. It’ll do you both good.”

W
ith only a week to prepare, Heather and Gunner got ready to go back to the Worlds. It would be Heather’s tenth World Paint Show, but she had never done it quite like this. Usually it was months of training, thousands of dollars, high-level competition, and intensely serious. Now they were going just to play, just because they loved to be there, and it felt like the craziest thing she had ever done. By the time they were ready to go, Heather was excited. It was like being a kid on her favorite pony in a 4-H show again.

Wes and his little dog, Tramp, would travel to the Worlds with Heather again that year … and so would Brent Becknow. Heather insisted that he come and be her stable-hand, since it had been his crazy idea to go in the first place. He had readily agreed, thinking he was in for a bit of an easy adventure, but it would turn out to be a real education.

It was Brent’s first time at
any
horse show, and the sheer size and magnitude of this one was stunning. He dressed up on their first day, expecting to sit up in the stands and watch as Heather and Gunner and all the other magnificent competitors “did their thing,” but Heather soon set him straight.

“You’re no good to me hanging around the stands,” she complained. “Go put on some work clothes and meet me in the barn.”

What Brent soon learned was that these big shows were all about the horse. Even though Heather had come in a less competitive frame of mind this year, she still planned to give the few classes they had entered her best shot, and Gunner’s care and comfort was her number one concern.

The days started early – far earlier then Brent was prepared for! Bleary eyed, Heather had him cleaning stalls, lugging water buckets, hay bales and bedding, and
mixing complicated grain rations. He helped her bathe and groom their charge, polishing hooves, removing grass and urine and mud stains from the white patches on Gunner’s coat, and taming a mane and tail that had been allowed to grow wild over the past months. Going from pasture-pretty to show-gorgeous was a lot more work then Brent could ever have guessed. Tack needed to be cleaned, Gunner needed time out of his stall to exercise, and the whole process seemed to be repeated several times a day.

Mike Stable greeted Heather warmly when he saw her, and seemed delighted to find Gunner back in good form.

“Well, he’s not what he was before,” Heather cautioned. “He’s really skittish on his blind side now. That may be a problem when the judges come up on that side in the showmanship class. And he’s not in very good shape. But he’s alive, and he’s here. That’s a lot more than I could have hoped for not too long ago.”

Mike assured her that they would do fine, and then asked if she was ready. He was used to her being extremely organized, polished, and driven, so he was surprised when she laughed and answered, “No, not quite. I don’t have an outfit yet.”

He frowned and pulled the class schedule out of his
pocket. “What are you in? Showmanship and hunter, right? They’re both tomorrow afternoon!”

“Yup,” she answered with a grin. “I’ll pick up some stuff when the vendors open in the morning.”

Mike laughed. “Oh boy, when I said just come and play, I didn’t think you’d take me this literally. It’s sure good to see you both back here though.”

“It feels great to be here,” she admitted.

The next day felt like one disaster after another to Brent, but again, he was learning. This was show life, and southern horse people were a resilient bunch. If they could survive Category 5 hurricanes, they could laugh off the minor catastrophes of a typical, high-stress show day with ease.

Heather had them up at the break of dawn, preparing for the day ahead. Gunner needed to be groomed to perfection and his stall kept spotless to prevent stains on his coat.

Gunner seemed to sense the excitement and was trying them with his old-time pranks. He fooled around in the wash rack and managed to soak both Brent and Heather. He untied himself while they were working on his legs and began wandering down the aisle, visiting other horses and raising a ruckus before they could catch him and get him back to his tie ring. He tipped a
water bucket, nipped Tramp, and was just being a general nuisance. Heather couldn’t have been more pleased!

She left Brent in charge of him for a while so that she could run to the vendors and buy a show outfit to wear. Brent was in a sweat the whole time, worrying that something would go wrong. Everything was fine, but by the time they began to prepare for the afternoon classes, Brent was exhausted – and the fun had only just begun.

About an hour before their hunter class, Heather took Gunner out to the practice ring to lunge him and warm up his muscles and burn off a bit of his high spirits. He was frisky and playful and, while goofing around, he took a misstep and fell hard. Instead of springing to his feet as he normally would, he stayed down, and for a moment, Heather panicked, thinking he was seriously hurt. Brent was at her side in a moment, eager to do what he could to help.

A minute later, though, Gunner heaved himself to his feet and stood quietly … perhaps a little sheepishly … as Heather inspected him from top to toe for scrapes and bruises. She had Brent walk and trot him out so she could check for any sign of lameness. He seemed fine. “I think he just knocked the wind out himself,” she said, relieved. They headed back to the barn to prepare for the hunter class.

Once again they groomed him, removing every trace of dust from his coat, and saddled him and tied him in his stall to wait a few more minutes before they would head out to the warm-up ring. But the mischievous gelding didn’t feel like standing around. He got down in his stall and rolled, saddle and all. Heather let out a yell when she saw what he was doing and urged him back to his feet. He stood before them, his mane sticking up wildly, his tail and saddle pad full of wood shavings. Heather could only laugh … this was so Gunner! But Brent was horrified. With only fifteen minutes before their class was due to be called, they worked to clean him up
again
and get him out to the ring for at least a short warm-up.

Despite all of this, Gunner held up well in the class and placed more than respectably, especially for a horse that could not stand on his own a half year earlier.

Between classes, Heather and Gunner were invited to the media station to tell their story. The little Paint was a celebrity and everyone was talking about “that miracle horse.”

Later that afternoon, they were waiting at the gate again for the showmanship class to be called. Heather had pulled together a very good-looking show outfit, minus some glitter, but at a fraction of the money that
she would normally have spent. Both she and Gunner were groomed to perfection, and Brent was feeling very proud of the effort he had put in to help get them there. They were just minutes away from the class he’d been waiting for, along with the dozens of other fans who filled the stands that afternoon to get a look at Gunner.

Wes, with Tramp at his heels, was never far from the action, and he stood now, munching a chocolate bar and watching his mother smooth her hair and brush dust from her dress shirt. Gunner chewed on his lead rope, trying to pull it from Brent’s hands.

“Do you think Gunner’s glad to be here again, Mama?” Wes asked thoughtfully.

Heather rubbed one of Gunner’s ears and answered, “Yes, I think he is. He likes all this attention, and he hasn’t been this playful in a long time.”

Wes reached up and offered Gunner the last of his Snickers bar, and before Heather or Brent could stop him, Gunner was munching the half-melted, gooey
treat, tossing his head and flicking bits of chocolaty saliva when the candy stuck to his teeth. Wes laid his hands on either side of the gelding’s white face and kissed him.