Friendly Foal (11 page)

“And he did them all by himself!” Lizzy winked at me.

I took a closer look. Every cookie had M&M's forming the number 4 in blue or brown. “They look great, Catman. But how come they all say
four
?”

“I dig the number 4,” he answered, as if I were the crazy one for asking.

I plopped at the kitchen table and let Lizzy and Catman wait on me. The oven heat felt great, and my fingers tingled as they thawed out. I took a sip of what looked like orange juice but tasted like lemon and cranberry.

Dad strode up the hall, past the kitchen, and straight to the phone. He frowned at it, huffed, then started to go out.

“How's it going, Dad?” I asked.

Dad stopped, as if shocked to see us. “Hi, Winnie. Catman. Lizzy. Didn't see you there.”

Catman had a mouthful of sticky number-4 cookie, but he grinned hello.

The phone rang.

“I got it!” Dad shouted, running for the phone. “Hello?”

There was a pause.

Then Dad shouted into the phone, “No, you may
not
speak with the lady of the house!” He slammed the receiver, then walked off, muttering to himself, “Of course, the phone isn't for me.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and came out with two charcoal-covered golf balls. “Why would anyone call me? Who would care enough to call, much less come over and . . . ?” His voice trailed off down the hall.

Poor Dad. And poor Madeline, when she finally did call.

Lizzy poured Catman another glass of lemon-cranberry juice and changed the subject. “Everything tastes better in shapes, don't you think?”

After two more cookies, Catman stood to go. “See you cats on the flip side.”

After Catman left, I helped Lizzy with dishes. Then I heated goat's milk and headed back to the barn.

Inside, a steady stream of cats was flowing toward the stalls. And from the barn came a series of squeaky, scrappy, unidentifiable squeals.

I dashed into the barn, almost tripping over the white-haired Rice. The screeches came together into words and echoed off the barn walls: “And I'll be-e-e there-ere-ere. You got a friend, baby. You got a friend, darling. Don't you know that you got a frie-e-end!”

“Catman?” I called, following the sound of his voice, which led right to Nickers' stall.

I stopped. There was Catman, holding Annie Goat's halter. The goat was standing perfectly still on a hay bale. And beneath her, Friendly Foal was nursing as if she couldn't get enough.

“You did it!” I cried. “You got the foal to drink from that ornery goat.”

I slipped into the stall and hoisted myself onto Nickers' bare back for a better view. Nickers and I watched as the foal drank, and the Catman kept singing, working his spell on Annie Goat.

Even Amigo sneaked closer to peer into the stall.

When it looked like Friendly had had her fill, Catman let go of Annie. The goat hopped off the bale of hay and took a bite out of it. Nickers strolled over and nuzzled the foal.

It was too great a moment to let go.

“Catman, can you stay and help me imprint Friendly?”

“I'm hip,” he said. I took it as a yes.

I slid off Nickers and sat beside Friendly. Catman squatted down and lifted the foal into his arms. Friendly was so full and content, she barely struggled.

I laughed. “For the rest of her life, Friendly will believe you can pick her up off the ground whenever you want to.” Mom had a friend who lifted her Clydesdale foals for just that reason.

Catman stretched the foal on her side, with her head in my lap.

I went over everything we'd already covered. Friendly didn't mind when I touched her neck, head, mouth, or ears. Then I moved down her neck to her mane, then her shoulders, then her rib cage. Getting her to relax when I stroked her chest was the toughest.

“If we get her used to having her chest rubbed,” I explained, “she won't mind when people fasten the girth and saddle her up.”

Finally I shifted around so I could stroke the foal's upper legs. I must have done it over 100 times before she stopped jerking her front legs away. Her hind legs were even tougher. But we kept at it, not giving up on her.

Sometime during the session Catman started singing softly: “‘Wild Thing. You make my heart sing.'”

I grinned up at him. People used to call Nickers Wild Thing. That was before I had her. A picture flashed into my mind—a good one this time. The amazing white Arabian the first time I saw her, racing up the lane toward Lizzy and me.
That's
a picture I don't mind replaying.

I flexed Friendly's elbows, then massaged her hock and stifle, moving down the hind legs again. Then I went back to her front legs to tackle hooves. When I touched her front hoof, she struck out at me.

“Cool it, little horse,” Catman said, slipping it into the tune of “Wild Thing.”

I didn't let up. I rubbed the bottom of the hoof, patted it, then tapped 50 taps. “So many horses throw fits when the farrier tries to trim their hooves or shoe them for the first time. None of the horses Mom raised ever did, though.”

Catman had a way of listening, even when he was singing.

Finally Friendly stayed relaxed, even when I tapped the bottom of her hooves.

“Now we need to roll her over and work her right side. Horses have two sides of the brain and fewer connections, like nerve fibers and stuff,” I explained. “So it's almost like two brains. You have to train skills on both sides of a horse. Mom said people who don't know that get really frustrated because they think the horse is used to something, like laundry flapping on a line when they're riding up a road. Then they turn around and come back, and the horse acts like he's never seen laundry before.”

Catman lifted the foal and rolled her over so Friendly was partway on both of us.

“This side could be tougher. The left side of the brain controls thinking and reasoning. The right side is all instinct, with survival reactions, like flight. It's the side of the brain that tells the horse to get out of there when there's trouble.”

Nickers moved in closer. She leaned down and licked Friendly's neck and jaw. Instantly the foal quit struggling.

I started over, taking my time, enjoying every second, feeling myself relax with Friendly.

I'd just moved to the nostrils and lips when I heard a van door slam. The last thing we needed was to be interrupted.

“Catman, tell whoever it is to go away!”

He started to get up, but the foal didn't like that.

“No. Don't get up!” I cried.

Madeline and Mason breezed into the barn. Madeline was singing, “‘Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!'” in some key that hadn't been invented yet.

The foal squirmed, and I couldn't blame her.

“Hi!” I whispered, hoping they'd get the hint.

Madeline stopped singing. “Here we are! Better late than never!” But her voice always sounds like a cartoon jingle. It was all I could do to hold on to the foal.

Mason tiptoed inside the stall and stared at the foal. He looked so much like a little angel that it hurt when I remembered how I'd yelled at him.

“Is she sick?” Mason asked.

“No!” But no wonder he thought that, with the foal lying on my lap, like Gracie had. I wondered if even Madeline knew how smart that kid was. “She's great, Mason. I'm getting her used to people so she'll be a good friend for you.”

“Come on over, little man!” Catman called.

Mason tiptoed behind us and slid into Catman's lap.

Madeline moved closer and watched, while I helped Mason stroke the foal's head and neck. Friendly was so good. Mason grinned until his dimple showed.

“I need to go in and help Jack,” Madeline said. “Mason, do you want to come with me or stay here?”

“Stay!” Mason answered.

“Then I'll leave you kids to your fun.”

She really
was
in a good mood.
Her
invention must have been going great.

I thought about Dad and how the last time I'd seen him he'd yelled at a telemarketer, something I'd never seen him do. Especially since he sometimes did phone sales himself and knew how it felt to get hung up on.

I listened to Madeline as she strolled off, whistling an off-key verse of “Winter Wonderland.”

I had a feeling her good mood was about to change.

After Madeline left the barn, Catman scooted closer so Mason could reach the foal better.

“How about giving your horse a name, Mason?” I suggested.

Mason stayed quiet so long I was afraid he'd left us again. Then he wrinkled his pixie nose. “Mason?”

“Far out!” Catman said.

But it was a bad idea. I, for one, couldn't take the confusion. “Well, that name's taken, Mason. Let's keep thinking, okay?”

He nodded and looked relieved. I couldn't force him to hurry any more than I could force the foal. I needed both of them to trust me.

We continued to rub the foal's head. Then we moved to her lips and mouth. “Get ready,” I whispered. “We're going to feel her tongue. She'll probably suck our fingers, but that's just fine.”

She did too. Mason shuddered, then giggled.

“Far out,” Catman muttered. “Cool, little dude. This is so happening!”

We kept going, imprinting, stroking Friendly's mane and rib cage. “Mason, you're great at this!” I said. I wanted to hug him, but I didn't have a hand free.

Suddenly the barn door banged open, and we all jumped. I lost my grip on the foal, and she squirmed away. I couldn't let her get up. But I couldn't hold her either.

“Catman!” I pleaded.

But he was blocked by Mason, who was clinging to his neck.

The foal struggled to her feet and escaped to Nickers, who looked ready to fight off the enemy, whatever it was.

Madeline Edison stormed up to the stall, not even aware that she'd just ruined everything. “Mason, come here!”

Mason wouldn't let go of Catman.

The foal scurried to the far wall, with Nickers snorting beside her.