different things,” my husband, Bill, warned me.
The night of her foaling, I was monitoring the mother on a closed-circuit television Bill had installed in our bedroom. I could see the mare glistening with sweat, her white-rimmed eyes full of anxiety. She was within hours of delivering when I dozed off.
I awoke with a jolt. Three hours had passed! A glance at the monitor revealed the mare was flat-out on her side. The birth was over. But where was the baby?
“Bill! Wake up!” I shook him hard. “Something stole the baby!” Wild dogs, coyotes and other predators invaded my imagination. Moments later we were in the dimly lit corral. “Where’s your baby, Mama?” I cried as I got on my knees to stroke the mare’s neck.
Suddenly a face popped out of the shadows—thin, dark, ugly. As the creature struggled to stand, I realized why I hadn’t seen it on my TV: no colorful spots, no blazing coat. Our foal was brown as dirt.
“I don’t believe it!” I said as we crouched for a closer look. “There’s not a single white hair on this filly!” We saw more unwanted traits: a bulging forehead, a hideous sloping nose, ears that hung like a jack rabbit’s and a nearly hairless bobtail.
“She’s a throwback,” Bill said. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. This filly will never sell. Who wants an Appaloosa without color?
The next morning when our older son Scott arrived for work and saw our newest addition, he minced no words.
“What are we going to do with that ugly thing?” he asked.
By now, the foal’s ears stood straight up. “She looks like a mule,” Scott said. “Who’s gonna want her?”
Our younger girls, Becky and Jaymee, ages fifteen and twelve, had questions too. “How will anyone know she’s an Appaloosa?” Becky asked. “Are there spots under the fur?”
“No,” I told her, “but she’s still an Appy inside.”
“That means she’s got spots on her heart,” said Jaymee. Who knows, I wondered. Maybe she does.
From the beginning, the homely filly seemed to sense she was different. Visitors rarely looked at her, and if they did, we said, “Oh, we’re just boarding the mother.” We didn’t want anyone to know our beautiful stallion had sired this foal.
Before long, I started noticing that she relished human company. She and her mother were first at the gate at feeding time, and when I scratched her neck, her eyelids closed in contentment. Soon she was nuzzling my jacket, running her lips over my shirt, chewing my buttons off and even opening the gate to follow me so she could rub her head on my hip. This wasn’t normal behavior for a filly.
Unfortunately, her appetite was huge. And the bigger she got, the uglier she got. Where will we ever find a home for her? I wondered.
One day a man bought one of our best Appaloosas for a circus. Suddenly he spied the brown, bobtailed filly. “That’s not an Appaloosa, is it?” he asked. “Looks like a donkey.” Since he was after circus horses, I snatched at the opportunity. “You’d be surprised,” I said. “That filly knows more tricks than a short-order cook. She can take a handkerchief out of my pocket and roll under fences. She can climb into water troughs. Even turn on spigots!”
“Reg’lar little devil, huh?”
“No,” I said quickly, then added on the spur of the moment, “as a matter of fact, I named her Angel!”
He chuckled. “Well, it’s eye-catchin’ color we need,” he told me. “Folks like spotted horses best.”
As time passed, Angel—aswe nowcalled her—invented new tricks. Her favorite was opening gates to get to food on the opposite side.
“She’s a regular Houdini,” Bill marveled.
“She’s a regular pain,” said Scott, who always had to go catch her.
“You’ve got to give her more attention,” I told him. “You spend all your time grooming and training the other yearlings. You never touch Angel except to yell at her.”
“Who has time to work with a jughead? Besides,
The night of her foaling, I was monitoring the mother on a closed-circuit television Bill had installed in our bedroom. I could see the mare glistening with sweat, her white-rimmed eyes full of anxiety. She was within hours of delivering when I dozed off.
I awoke with a jolt. Three hours had passed! A glance at the monitor revealed the mare was flat-out on her side. The birth was over. But where was the baby?
“Bill! Wake up!” I shook him hard. “Something stole the baby!” Wild dogs, coyotes and other predators invaded my imagination. Moments later we were in the dimly lit corral. “Where’s your baby, Mama?” I cried as I got on my knees to stroke the mare’s neck.
Suddenly a face popped out of the shadows—thin, dark, ugly. As the creature struggled to stand, I realized why I hadn’t seen it on my TV: no colorful spots, no blazing coat. Our foal was brown as dirt.
“I don’t believe it!” I said as we crouched for a closer look. “There’s not a single white hair on this filly!” We saw more unwanted traits: a bulging forehead, a hideous sloping nose, ears that hung like a jack rabbit’s and a nearly hairless bobtail.
“She’s a throwback,” Bill said. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. This filly will never sell. Who wants an Appaloosa without color?
The next morning when our older son Scott arrived for work and saw our newest addition, he minced no words.
“What are we going to do with that ugly thing?” he asked.
By now, the foal’s ears stood straight up. “She looks like a mule,” Scott said. “Who’s gonna want her?”
Our younger girls, Becky and Jaymee, ages fifteen and twelve, had questions too. “How will anyone know she’s an Appaloosa?” Becky asked. “Are there spots under the fur?”
“No,” I told her, “but she’s still an Appy inside.”
“That means she’s got spots on her heart,” said Jaymee. Who knows, I wondered. Maybe she does.
From the beginning, the homely filly seemed to sense she was different. Visitors rarely looked at her, and if they did, we said, “Oh, we’re just boarding the mother.” We didn’t want anyone to know our beautiful stallion had sired this foal.
Before long, I started noticing that she relished human company. She and her mother were first at the gate at feeding time, and when I scratched her neck, her eyelids closed in contentment. Soon she was nuzzling my jacket, running her lips over my shirt, chewing my buttons off and even opening the gate to follow me so she could rub her head on my hip. This wasn’t normal behavior for a filly.
Unfortunately, her appetite was huge. And the bigger she got, the uglier she got. Where will we ever find a home for her? I wondered.
One day a man bought one of our best Appaloosas for a circus. Suddenly he spied the brown, bobtailed filly. “That’s not an Appaloosa, is it?” he asked. “Looks like a donkey.” Since he was after circus horses, I snatched at the opportunity. “You’d be surprised,” I said. “That filly knows more tricks than a short-order cook. She can take a handkerchief out of my pocket and roll under fences. She can climb into water troughs. Even turn on spigots!”
“Reg’lar little devil, huh?”
“No,” I said quickly, then added on the spur of the moment, “as a matter of fact, I named her Angel!”
He chuckled. “Well, it’s eye-catchin’ color we need,” he told me. “Folks like spotted horses best.”
As time passed, Angel—aswe nowcalled her—invented new tricks. Her favorite was opening gates to get to food on the opposite side.
“She’s a regular Houdini,” Bill marveled.
“She’s a regular pain,” said Scott, who always had to go catch her.
“You’ve got to give her more attention,” I told him. “You spend all your time grooming and training the other yearlings. You never touch Angel except to yell at her.”
“Who has time to work with a jughead? Besides,
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