"Kitten and the Harvest Moon"
from The Book of Dreams

A true story
Translated from the equine by Steed


Her eyes fly open wide as she leaps from her dreams with a start, her
exquisite head tossing, another needle-sharp pain shooting through her
leg. Shifting her weight, hips tilting, she tries to make it pass, but
to no avail, for the throbbing ache is always there. All four legs hurt,
but the hind ones most of all. Down through the thighs, gaskins and
hocks, even to the fetlocks, the very swollen muscles cry as they throb.
But there is no real relief, only sleep.

During the night a strong wind has arisen, a cold autumn breeze that
gusts down from the glacier and the mountains, sending leaves and dust
and pieces of plastic and paper dancing among the trees that surround
her corral. Although the moon is full, the fast moving clouds obscure
it's silver glow, leaving their moonshadows creeping along the earth in
ever shifting patterns that leap and roll and shoot up the trunks and
tossing branches of the trees and into the sky.  

Not only is she sore, she is cold, and turns her rear more directly to
the wind, already having taken a position where the trees seem to hold
the meanest gusts at bay. She shivers as the wind buffets her, ruffling
her fine coat and spraying the long black hairs of her mane and tail
against her flank and elegant neck.  

With a gentle snort as a bit of something blows into her nostril, she
lowers her head and closes her dark eyes. She wants only to sleep, to
dream of better times, to forget her terrible pain. And as the cold wind
blows against her, she slowly slips in and out of that deep, deep river
which the man-person knew as sleep, but which we equines know as Lethe. 

As she dips in and out of that river, further and further each time into
it's winedark depths, she begins to believe she has stepped back in
time. Her lush, black lashes flutter and fall on her finely chiseled
face, and she dreams the dreams of the Inbetween, until finally she
sleeps more than she is awake.

Her dreams are the past recaptured, and she clings to them as a
desperate man will cling to a bit of wood in the middle of an ocean. The
mare that is named Kitten feels her spirit weaken, feels the silver cord
stretch and stretch again, until her soul is held to this earth only by
her courageous will and the blessing of memory.

Drifting back into the river of sleep, a brown leaf floating lightly
with the easy current, she returns to the world of her dreams, and is
back in that magical home where the man-person lives.

Why can she not be there with him now? It is her home, too. . . . isn't
it?

The day becomes sunny and warm again. They are together in her paddock,
the man-person so gently brushing her dappled brown coat. His voice is
sweet music, his  manner kind and easy. He places another loving kiss on
her eye as he moves carefully to her other side. 

As he grooms her he continuously talks to her, saying how pretty she is
and how much he loves her. He can hardly take his eyes off of her,
constantly looking toward her head and into her eye to make sure she is
enjoying his attentions. She is.

After cleaning and inspecting her hooves, he gently positions the pad
and saddle on her back, saying easy girl over and over as he checks the
fit and carefully cinches up. She shoves her head into the bridle that
he holds up before her and as he presents the bit, she eagerly takes it
in anticipation, mouthing it contentedly. 

He carefully checks the throatlatch and tightens the cinch, then gently
stretches each foreleg out in front of her, making sure her velvety skin
isn't being pinched. She never minds any of this, his hands and manner
are so careful and loving. And she knows they are going for a ride,
which she enjoys nearly as much as the attentions of her man-person.

Then they are galloping along the river, soft sand flying. Oh how she
loves to run, the wind whipping mane and tail, the man-person needing no
more than to think RUN to urge her on.  They shoot up and down and
around the dunes and blast through the creek, a great wave of water
spraying from her sturdy legs and flashing hooves. They both revel in
it, their bodies as one, a magical centaur-Pegasus flying and dancing
into the sun.

The man-person pulls her gently to a stop amid the tall, sweet grass. He
gently dismounts and, lighting one of his cigarettes, sits down on a
log, watching her and loving her as she slices great mouthfuls and
munches greedily and contentedly.

After awhile, the man-person rises and goes to her, as he always does,
and holds her neck to his chest; her cheek to his, and pours his love
into her. Such sweet love, it is like rolling in the sun! 

Then the man-person leads her along the trail, allowing her to sample
the various grasses and vegetation, a bit of this, a little more of
that. How she loves the arctic roses, stripping the leaves and flowers
skillfully as they pass. The man-person seems to enjoy her enthusiastic
grazing and munching, knowing that she is happy.

And after, never without, a long hug and a sweet kiss on her eye, he
mounts and they are off for another wonderful run in the wind and the
sunshine.

Why is he not here for her now?

* * *

He tosses in his bed, the river of sleep in turmoil, a rapids, the
waters tumbling and spraying over the rocks that are his pain. His eyes
open as they so often do lately. He looks over at the clock.
Five-thirty. Be time to get up soon anyway, he thinks sadly. Another bad
night. Another empty day.

He lies staring at the dark ceiling, noticing that the wind has come up,
howling and buffeting the cabin, and that the moon is out and bright,
sending soft, silvery shadows flickering about the ceiling and walls.
His thoughts drift back to his Kitten again. He pictures her, sore and
cold and alone on this windy morning. God, I miss her. Why was I so
stupid? Why did I ever sell her to anybody, much less that ignorant
girl. I should have done anything, whatever it took, to be able to keep
her.

Yes, I know, it's not entirely my fault. I way underbid that project,
ignorant fool. Yet knowing what I know now, I should have begged or
borrowed some money from somebody, hay isn't THAT expensive.

But hell, I didn't know. I thought I'd found a great home for her. Just
right down the highway. Could visit her, even ride her, anytime I liked;
that was part of the agreement. And the girl seemed to adore her. Of
course, I didn't get nearly what she was worth on the market, much less
to me, but I sure needed that five hundred up front. Now I'm not sure
I'll even get the rest. If I had any guts I'd go steal her back, but
they know where to find her. They'd just show up with the Troopers and
I'd have to give her back. The vet won't even help; patient-client
privilege and all that. Damn!

Twice I told that girl not to sweat her up like that. Kitten wasn't in
condition. I hadn't ridden her but half a dozen times all year. Hadn't
even been lunging her. 

He remembered what he'd said to the girl.

You can't be taking these long rides with your friends like this. The
last time you showed up, Kitten was drenched, literally dripping sweat,
her coat all matted and wet. And look, here she is again, all lathered
up, panting and blowing, head down. Don't you see that stressed look in
her eyes?

I'll never forget that, nor forgive that girl. 

Should have grabbed Kitten on the spot! Maybe the law would have been on
my side. Cruelty to animals. Yet the girl seemed to understand. Only
taking short rides my butt, I told her. Take it easy, she's not in
shape. See how she's all sweated up? Dehydrated. Heart rate and
breathing way too fast. Don't you know how to check those things? You're
hurting her, you could even kill her. Because she'll do anything for
you, you can literally ride her to death. Don't you understand?

The girl said she wouldn't do it again, that she was sorry. Tell Kitten
that, I said. She's the one you need to apologize to. You're going to
hurt her real bad, at least tie her up, if you do this again. Lead her
home slowly and cool her down slowly, I told her. I really thought I'd
gotten through as I watched them head back down the highway. I really
did.

Then the mother coming over and telling me they shouldn't have to pay
the full balance on a horse they'd gotten dirt cheap because she had
come up lame? Now that was just too much. Sure she's lame, she's been
overworked and over stressed, darn right she's lame, but don't blame
that on her!

Or me. The mother and the girl think I lied to them about my Kitten,
that I'd pulled a fast one on them and sold them a horse that goes lame.
I've never had any problem at all with her, never any lameness. I never
had a vet over because of her legs or hooves. In fact, the vet thought I
should breed her, her conformation is so correct. Stupid people.

I'll never forget how she looked the other day, her hind legs swollen
>from hip to hoof. I tried to comfort her, but she was in so much pain!
I'd never seen such a look on her face. She hardly acknowledged my
presence; she'd been drugged by the vet. I wrapped her legs as best I
could, had brought a bucket of ice for the girl to use on those terrible
legs, had offered all the advice I knew. I'll never forgive myself.

The man rolls onto his side and closes his eyes. He begins to think
about last week, before all this had happened, when Kitten had arrived
on her own. He'd looked out the window and saw a brown horse across the
highway, grazing the tall grass along the easement. When he realized it
was Kitten, he ran out to her, worried about the cars. She came right up
to him, nickering. She seemed all right, so he led her into the paddock.
She immediately trotted over to the shade of the woods and lay down. I'm
home.

He makes up his mind. I'm going to go get her today. . . going to get
her. . . get her. . . the man slowly dips back into the now much quieter
waters of the river of sleep, content, knowing he'll have his Kitten if
he has to steal and hide her.

* * *

The beautiful mare that is named Kitten jumps suddenly awake as the
newspaper blows against her legs. The clouds have parted, and the moon
shines starkly bright, looming over the great, dark bulk of the
mountain, a big harvest moon. She starts to move, wringing her exquisite
neck and snorting in a growing tension and fear. The face of the moon
begins to shift and change, patterns of light and dark swimming across
it's silvery disc, first to the face of a great, silver wolf, ears
flattened and lips wrinkled in a terrible snarl, then to that of an
enormous lion, fangs dripping with the blood of countless victims. Panic
strikes the beautiful mare as she ducks and turns, seeking any escape. 
The wind hisses and growls menacingly in the trees as their arms gesture
madly at her. Terrible arms with talons and claws, they send their
shadows jumping and grabbing at her, nasty, groping moonshadows that
come at her from every direction at once.

Spinning and kicking, she bucks and starts a mad dash around the corral.
All she wants is to escape this evil place, to go home to the man-person
she loves so much. She must run to his arms!
Back and forth along the fence she races, looking for an opening, a
gate, anything at all, but she  finds nothing. Her panic grows intense,
the raw survival instincts of the cornered prey, and suddenly she gains
the complete strength and incredible power that is the horse. In a flash
she is over the fence, the terrible pain forgotten. The safety of home
is all she can think of. The total focus of her entire life and of her
very being is at this moment, home and the man-person. He will save her!

Dashing madly out to the highway, nothing can stop her now!

The old man in the thick glasses is late for work. Frustrated, he cranks
and cranks the old truck. The engine finally catches with a cough and
roars into life. The silvery light of the big moon beams down on him as
he clatters and bounces along the side road,  and finally pulls out onto
the highway and floors it.

Just entering the curve, he doesn't see the dark shape up ahead, not
until he is right on it, and then it is too late. Much too late.

A short while later, the girl and her mother also pull onto the highway,
to look for the beautiful mare that was named Kitten. Was she going to
see the man and the home she'd known for years? How had she gotten out
of the corral? How could she even walk with such sore legs? It was going
to take all winter for her to recover. . . wasn't it?

Approaching the curve, what are all the flares for? And the Troopers'
lights. Has there been an accident? The  mother stops the car and the
girl suddenly throws open the door and runs ahead toward where firemen
are hosing down the pavement. As the mother opens the door and starts to
get out of the car,  a freezing knife flies up her spine. The scream
could be heard for miles.

The man is having the most wonderful dream of his life. It is a bright,
moonlit night, one of those chilly, autumn nights so still one wonders,
awake, if one is dreaming.  He is standing in the center of the arena he
built with his own two hands and the honest sweat of his brow.  He hears
a sound, a sound like the thudding of hoofbeats on the damp grass. He
turns to look, but sees nothing but the fence and the trees beyond. He
looks again, more intently, peering more deeply into the woods.

A dark shape slowly emerges from the shadows of the forest, melting
through the fence and into the moonlight. The exquisitely chiseled head
of a beautiful mare. She whinnies, her dark eyes sparkling in the
silvery light.  Emerging fully into the light, she breaks into a trot.
She comes to him. She reaches her perfect head toward him and, nickering
contentedly, nuzzles his chest.

Oh Kitten, my beautiful Kitten, you have come back. I will never let you
go. Crying tears of absolute joy, he throws his arms around her neck and
kisses the whiffs of her perfect eye. He will never let her go. He holds
that kiss forever.
