Taking A Chance

• Molly Meenan, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2008

Tears streamed down Beck Simons’ face. Her worst fears were realized.

As the vet’s car pulled out of the drive she turned to look at her beautiful black shire horse. His long mane fell like a waterfall over his shoulders. He whinnied softly and took the weight off his bad leg. “Monty”, she whispered. “I’m sorry”.

Words had spilled carelessly out of the farmer’s mouth weeks earlier when he’d told Beck that Monty’s foot had caught in the wire fencing and broken in two parts.

She swallowed hard. Monty pulled at his hay with such force the bag started swinging. He’d taught her so much. Respect, love and voice commands. She was always surprised how well he responded to her words.

She had been so proud when the farmer had asked her to ride him. The farmer had wanted to make money out of selling Monty, but he needed a lot of work. For six years and three afternoons a week, Beck had spent time training Monty. The few dollars she made every week, she saved, in the hope that the farmer would sell Monty to her at a reduced rate. Now all her dreams had gone. She knew she couldn’t bond with another horse in the same way again.

The vet had been kind. A large syringe with a tranquilizer to relax him and then the final lethal injection. It was over.

Saffron stood in the next paddock; blowing air through her nostrils and pulling it back in, to smell the strange odour coming from her stablemate’s body. She munched silently on the grass, feeding her growing belly. Then Beck saw something strange. The vet leaned over and said quietly to the farmer, “Does she know?” The farmer shook his head, “No".

A cold wind blew through the trees as Monty’s large frame was finally covered with dirt. A single rose marked the grave.

The commotion started almost exactly two months later. A frantic phone call, her mother driving her down to the stables where Beck found the farmer and the vet furiously working around a horse which was lying on the soft rice hulls. It took a few minutes for Beck to gather the pieces and work out that the shape was Saffron.
“Is something wrong?” “No no, she’s fine, we’re just helping the foal, come and see”, said the farmer. Saffron made a strange noise and a black bundle of wriggling legs and body slid out.

“A colt, a beauty” said the vet.

The foal made a shaky attempt at standing up. Beck watched in amazement.
“The owner has to name him”, the farmer gazed at her. Beck gasped. “He’s mine?”
She felt the warm muzzle of the foal on her neck. “Hello. Chance!” she said softly.
She looked deep into the eyes of the colt and felt something strange, a connection that she hadn’t felt for a while.

The farmer smiled, “Now what are the chances of this little boy being exactly like his father?”