Dancer
by Bill Kuhns
Dancer 10:00 pm April 11 long ago The hard-slammed door reverberates and echoes and sets up sympathetic rattles in the windows. Or is that the wind? She stormed out, hurt and inflicting hurt. Jerking up their son -- her son and slamming the door with all her 106 pounds of fury. She left, on a bitter windy rainy storm-threatening night, to be alone with her blackness. She took her son along, but she would be alone. He: alone. Totally. He was unfaithful to her. He was her rapist. He hurt her, always, all ways. She knew that. Like she knew sometimes black was white was green. Like she knew everyone close to her was hurting her. But he, especially. -------- From a perspective of twenty plus years later, he began to understand that. Not then. -------- Then all he saw was her pain and her hurt. And all he felt was hurt and hurtfulness. And he blamed himself. Not enough empathy. Not enough feeling. Not enough helping. Not enough closeness. Not enough thoughtfulness. Not enough fathering. Her Opel, its usual burble a fast diminishing roar receding from his consciousness; then his consciousness receding, diminishing to a white-hot pinpoint centered in his right frontal lobe. Leaning on the paneled wall, he slid to the floor unknowing and unfeeling. He lay there, fetal, wracked and wrecked, praying silent screams to who knew Who. Sobbing and tearing and slobbering and snotting and knowing he was wrong and hurtful and neglectful and evil and Who knew what all. He lay there, making a puddle, hours. Or minutes. As he had before. And would again. Lightning, closer and closer, pried into his locked up systems. The macho alpha Shepherd wedged himself close, frightened, then terrified. (The Shepherd knew; he had been struck by lightning when a pup.) Then Dancer! ---------- Dancer... Almost three weeks old now. Dancing, from the fillys second hour. Seldom standing. Never walking. Sometimes running walking, sometimes galloping, otherwise always dancing. Brightest baby horse theyd seen. Glistening black, two front socks and a star and a stellar personality. Revealed her name her second day; most names took weeks to emerge. Beautiful, nearly as refined as an Arab, with natural Tennessee walking horse gaits and a loving disposition. Her mom had been a good mom for two other babies. Not for Dancer. Her mother rejected Dancer from birth. Would not let her nurse. So he milked the mare, from the first hour, for the precious colostrum, and bottle-fed Dancer. The vet came quickly. She said to bottle feed the baby as often as the filly wanted, and watch her. Precautionary antibiotics. Four times a day he milked the mare; frequent bottle feedings. The beautiful dancing filly appeared to do fine for a few days. Then began failing. Eyes less sparkling, coat losing its luster. The vet shot Dancer more antibiotics. She continued to fail. Too weak now, he (and especially she) thought, to bring the filly to Iowa States superb large animal hospital, with a mother who was rejecting her, and too young to travel alone. More, stronger antibiotics. Continued decline. --------- Now, lightning striking all around, too close to count between flash and crash; lights off, then on, then remaining off, dog smelling terrified, burrowing in to him. And DANCER! Dancer is dead! Just now! She died! He KNEW! He tore out in agonizing slow motion to the isolation pen and small run-in shelter Dancer and her mother occupied. Forty degrees. Stinging rain. Strong winds. He barefoot, in shorts and T-shirt only. Mother in the walk-in shelter. Alone. No baby! Flashlight searching in the torrents between lightning flashes howd he think to grab the light? There outside the shelter down in a far corner of the pen, a huge puddle caused by torrential rains running off the neighbors corn field... a sickening, half-stuffed abandoned discarded soaked toy filly flat out in the puddle. Slow motion run to her, slipping. sliding, falling to her side, lying by her, feeling her pulse none. But warm. Feeling her breath none. Flash in her eye nothing. Pulling her, rear legs first, dragging her face out of the puddle. Guilt engorging his soul. Guilt for his treatment of spouse, for their neglect of their son, for their neglect of Dancer. Should have done more for all. Do something! Lying with her in the stinging 40 mph wind driven huge raindrops he closed Dancers nose, breathed all the life he could breathe into her mouth. Life to her lungs. Her chest rose, he released, it fell. He kept on. For minutes. For hours. He did not know. He stopped for breath. Started again. Again. Again. Never a sign of response. He stopped. He saw the mare. Dancers mom. Looking up at her as he lay in the mud. She, totally ignoring his efforts. Ignoring her infant. As she had since birth. Seeming to wonder why he was there... why was he bothering He lowered Dancers face gently. Gently into the muck. He rose. In agony. Sobbing and wracking and slipping and trudging back to the house. Hed let a glorious, vibrant life die. Where could all the tears come from? Showering in his clothes to start, he rinsed them, washed himself. Guilt does not wash off. See Mac Beth. The outside storm passed. Little damage. His internal storm continued, strengthened, not abated. When she returned, seemingly finally, he told her, just of the death. Oh. --------- Morning. Cold sunlight. He had not yet finished Dancers grave when the vet arrived. She autopsied Dancer where hed dragged the fillys body, near her grave. Everything normal. Until the liver. What looked to him like a bright green-yellow velvet covered it all. A fungal invasion. After the vet left he finished Dancers grave. In wracking tears. He reverently lowered the bagged parts, which had been Dancers vessel, into the grave and carefully covered them. And part of himself. She had no chance at life. Ever. Her mother knew that. Always. Her mother knew what needed doing. We intellectuals did not. Some of us are trying to learn. --------- Some day. Perhaps. *
Comments would be appreciated by the author, Bill Kuhn
 
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