Toby has a tummy ache
I wake up to see Toby's hulking outline against the starry sky framed by the loafing shed door. Sound asleep in the deep straw, the Percheron's head is tucked to his chest. His crazy mane is awry. I wonder if he's dreaming. I could reach out and touch his flat withers from where I lay on the cot in my sleeping bag with Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler squeezed inside behind my knees for good measure. But I don't want to disturb him.
Every breath the horse takes is like my own. It's not good to love something this much, I think.
I wake to Matilda's wriggling out of the sleeping bag. She rifles off to investigate the coyotes yipping in the distance. Apparently, she in charge of my safety tonight. I listen to the loud keening of the wild things for a long time.
A boom of thunder jars me back to this world. A flash of lightening. Matilda is sleeping right on top of me. Toby is up on all fours, looming over us, bottom lip drooping, back leg cocked. I pull the sleeping bag closer, a little nervous about being flat on my back in such close proximity to a huge draft horse, but then remember the time when the young Percheron fell to his knees instead of running over me when the flight instinct kicked in. The thunderheads wring themselves out until a deluge pummels the metal roof. It sounds like I am in a war zone. The temperature drops 15 degrees. I wriggle my toes in my wool socks, staring out into the now starless night, a little afraid. Matilda snores.
I awaken to the sound of pooping. It is the best sound I have heard all night. Big plops of soft manure thud against the ground. One by one by one. Toby is in silhouette outside in the corral now, tail raised like a banner. Good, I think. Everything's moving. No Banamine shots tonight, I pray. The geese are making happy, sleepy, safe and contented sounds in the hen house next door. Cooeing like oversized, earthbound pigeons.
Meowing pierces the thin curtain of sleep. Something crunches and creeps through straw. I freeze, wondering groggily if there are any large, toothy rats around. The kind with glowing yellow eyes. I pull out the flashlight. Toby is sprawled out on his side, legs stuck straight out, shovel-sized hooves splayed. The Percheron is breathing regularly, relaxed, deeply drinking in the night. I reach down next to the cot and feel for Matilda's rough coat. Find her button tail instead. She growls menacingly and sends the curious barn cat skittering off.
Toby wakes me up by snuffling my knees, calves, toes. I expect him to take the sleeping bag in his teeth and pull me right off of the cot. Just because the generally full-of-bullshit trickster can. But he doesn't. Matilda sends him off with a firm bark. He sashays out to the corral. I hear the blessed sound of munch munch munch as he eats his hay. Turn over onto my side, close my eyes, and let the sound of my horse who must finally be feeling better lull me back to sleep. At least for a little while.
