Quito- The Hit Man- Part 2

H        He loaded perfectly- hopped right in, like he was relieved to get out of there and I didn't blame him. I went to the office to collect my coggins and pay. Old Mac was sitting behind the counter, and when I told him what horse I bought, he tried not to smile. "Oh, you got him."  he said, his hand strategically landing on the "NO REFUNDS FOR ANY REASON!!! sign taped to the counter. He already had my money, what did he care?
       "What about him?" I asked, cautious. Maybe I didn't want to know.
       "The slaughter man broke down on the way to the plant." Mac said.
       This was back when the horse economy was half decent, and only the worst of the worst went to the plant. "He got half way to Georgia and the wheel feel off. The horses sat in that trailer all day." (it was summer) "Some of 'em got a bit beat up. The vet didn't want to put them down, so they just stayed there until they died on their own." (As sick as the story was, the deep south was as compassionate to its animals as it was to its migrant workers. . . and that's not saying much. I've heard of vet's refusing to put mortally injured horses in trailer accidents for fear of getting sued.) "Guess your guy was the lucky one." he smiled again, handing me my coggins. I walked out in a daze.

       It was dark when I got home, Guido hopped off the trailer and I put him in my quarantine stall. (this was the very same stall that once was an extension off the shed. The roof really low, but I had this beefcake of a friend come over, and like the incredible hulk, he lifted the roof, and I put blocks under it to raise it up- the same roof that I decided needed sweeping, and while I was standing on the old tin, I fell through, caught by my arms that would not fit through the hole. My brother comes out of the house, looks at me dangling, rolls his eyes and says, "Phone call."
        "Tell 'em I fell through the roof, and I'll call 'em back!")
 
        I pat old Guido on the butt as he passed, and closed the door. "Night buddy."

     That morning I woke up as any kid would do on Christmas morning. I rushed out to see my new friend. Guido was waiting at the stall door. I reached in, snapped the lead on and led him out. I tied him to the hitching post and started brushing. I noticed the leg swelling from last night. He had a long scar from his hock to his pastern, a big, jagged black scar said it had been there awhile. I went in the shed and came back with some DMSO in a spray bottle to spray on the swelling. I leaned down and pulled the trigger. I'd never seen DMSO fly before. It took a moment to realize that my pretty hot pink sprayer had not defied gravity, it had been kicked.
    In my enthusiasm, I didn't think about Guido not liking spray bottles. Some horses are afraid of the hiss sound it made, so I got a rag to wipe it on.

  Oh, how many lives have I used up? It's hard to say, but the hoof that grazed my ear said, you're damn lucky.

    All horses have legs, all horses can kick, but most don't aim. They just give you a small warning swing, but Quito was not called "The Hit Man" for nothing.

   "I suggest you just grab his back leg, and when he swings, you push it into him, and he kicks himself." My roommate Wendy said.
    "Go right ahead." I answered.
     She went back inside.
     I had a few tricks that usually cured kickers. One was a broomstick. You just laid it over their back and down their legs, letting them get the feel of something back there. You just gently rub and rub, and when they kick, you keep your hand still, and they kick the stick. You just let them kick and kick while you rub gently. Eventually they kick themselves out, and realize you mean no harm.
This worked great.
For about one minute.
Quito kicked, and I rubbed. He kicked and I rubbed, he kicked and the broomstick turned into a javelin. It soared across the yard and landed in the woods. That bastard had aim.
     Trick number two, the wall. This is a variation of the broom stick, taught to me by my first farrier. You simply rub the stick on the back legs again, but this time the horse is backed up to a solid wood wall. You rub, he kicks the wall. The wall stings their legs, and they stopped.

      It worked great on my sassy filly yearling (who HATED me because the first day I brought her home a hay truck drove by. Having never seen such a contraption, she ran away, flipped over backwards, and landed under the board fence, two legs on one side, two on the other- and this was completely my fault and I was to be hated and kicked at)
     My farrier Larry rubbed her backside with his big hand, she kicked the wall twice and that was it. Party over, she never kicked again. Quito, on the other hand, was smarter than 'the wall'. He kicked twice. The wall hurt his feet, and he never kicked again, the wall that is. I was still soft, and I didn't hurt his legs when he struck out at me.
   At a loss, I decided to end our 'session' since I was clearly going to die if I didn't, I turned him out with the herd. My horses had seen it all. They knew mommy took in every single living creature that needed a home. Horses being the most common collectible, they barely sniffed noses with newcomers. I let Quito go out with the herd and remembered the slaughter man's warning and the look on his face when I picked up Quito's back legs the night before, and suddenly realized A: I could have been decimated if it wasn't for the saving grace of Ace and B: why everyone had given up on him, and he was on the slaughter truck bound for Georgia. I, however would NOT give up on him.

   My old gelding walked up to Quito, sniffed his scarred nose, and squealed. Quito spun and ran. He ran so fast that he simply removed the electric fence tape off of fourteen posts, stepped out of the mess, and started grazing in my front yard like he was bored.
   An hour worth of fence repairs later, Quito had found his new home- in the front yard. He didn't mind the duct taped goat tied to the camellia bush   (that's another story.. . . the goat who's side fell off) the giant wild tom turkey who adopted me after I saved his life with Gatorade soaked dog food and penicillin shots in the waddle (there's not many places to give shots on turkeys) and the bands of chickens who paid as much mind to horses that kicked as they would a rock.
   It wasn't that I wanted him in the front yard, it was simply that any attempt to catch him got you a butt of two loaded cannons attached to it, pointed right at you. He was smarter than to be lured into a stall, so in the yard he stayed.
        He would accept treats, as long as you rolled them to him, slowly. Anything faster than a gentle toss would send him flying like an insane horse around the yard, upsetting Duct Tape Goat and flustering Mr.Surk, the Turkey. Quito quickly learned that he better come for his sweet feed when called, or every other animal in the yard would eat it before he decided the pan was safe.
   Life continued like this for a month. I did nothing more than ignore him while he learned how to sneak up the front steps and eat the dog food off the front porch, or undo the latch on the shed door, remove the heavy metal lid off the barrel, and eat his fill. When the latch was fortified, he learned how to ever so gently nudge the glass out of the shed window, and toss all the grooming boxes within reach, onto the floor.
   Eventually I was able to had feed alfalfa cubes, his favorite snack, out of my hand. Cubes were worth braving the crazy humans for. Once I made the mistake of introducing to Quito to a date. The cocky cowboy with his stinky knock off Stetson cologne strode up to Quito and held out his hand. I was so proud when Quito ever so gently accepted the gift of the delicious snack. He mindfully chewed it, swallowed, looked at me and spun, double barreling the guy in the chest.
    Despite the fact that the kick was well aimed, and the boy eventually proved he needed to be taken down a few notches, I did realize that Quito was still volatile and quite dangerous. . . it was now time for some serious action. The next day I was going to fix this mess once and for all. That night I assembled my arsenal. . . a full faced motorcycle helmet, a eventing vest, those grabby claw-things old people use to take cans off the top shelf of the pantry, two nylon dog collars, sheepskin covers, and a pair of hobbles. Oh ya, and one more thing. . . a shot of Ace.