Hobby Horse

A man of attrition and not very worthy could fit a man we can call, Hopalong.
At fourteen, my first horse farm job was a peaceful three-mile walk from home. Such work was a grade above peddling newspapers or hauling hay. An hourly wage was involved, and a sense of responsibility was endowed with the care and feeding of horses. Sixty, some acres of paddocks and pasture were marked by white wooden fences. Two boarding barns had neatly kept stalls for a variety of mares intended for breeding to our prized stallions. A training barn adjacent to an oval track kept harness racehorses destined for county fairs or Northville Downs.
Within a short time on the job, I was privy to the story about Hopalong. His father owned a new car dealership, and his success provided this family horse farm. An early death left it all to his Hopalong. His mismanagement of the dealership left him with a run-down used car lot, while his wife managed the horse farm into an enterprise that boarded, bred, and trained harness racehorses. During my tenure, the used car lot was dwindling, and Hopalong was more prevalent at the farm.
In our plebiscite role, we gave Hopalong a pass while his wife garnered our respect. She was researching artificial insemination for our breeding tasks while Hopalong scorned an extra flake of hay for a boarded mare. Preps for scheduled visitors brought Hopalong out of the estate house too often for cosmetic gestures. One such time brought about an ire that I had before not found. We had a mare in foal with the heaves. I want to call her Hanna though I cannot remember her name. My vet skills aside, the heaves were a form of emphysema that usually calls for putting them away peacefully. Hopalong wants to keep her alive to give birth. He could not have Hanna around with visitors about, so he commanded me to take her across the road to the shed. This old building was open to the elements with a roof beyond repair. A plebe had no voice, so I followed instructions. My first stop every morning and last peek at night was to see to Hanna and pity her situation.
I remember that hot August Sunday when a torrential downpour hit Southeast Michigan. I thought of Hanna that night. The shed was my first stop at dawn on Monday. There she lay with the foal inside her so very still after such a traumatic night. It was as if a bolt of lightning had pitched her against the side of the stall. For a dead horse, you remove their halter. I did that and stormed onto the patio of the estate house (no place for us peons) where Hopalong was enjoying his morning coffee, threw her halter at his feet, and said, “The foal didn’t make it either.” Then I walked away.