They drove him away from his own home. That’s where the vicious rumors started. The aggression. The attacks.
He wasn’t a monster. He was a loyal, heartbroken animal, fiercely defending his territory, waiting for an old man who was never coming back.
It made me sick to my stomach. This animal had been thrown away, shot at, and labeled a killer, all because he refused to abandon his best friend.
The vet looked down at his boots. “Arthur isn’t doing well,” he whispered.
The heartbreak of losing his farm and his horse was finishing the job the stroke started. The nurses said Arthur had completely given up fighting and stopped eating three days ago.
I looked over at Lily. She was brushing Buster’s tangled mane with her fingers. Her face was more peaceful than I had seen it since her mother died.
I didn’t even have to think about my next move. I asked the vet for the exact address of the nursing home.
I drove into town and rented a massive two-horse transport trailer. I worried we’d have a massive fight on our hands getting him inside.
The last time someone tried to force this horse into a metal box, it ended in violence. But I didn’t use a whip or a heavy rope.
I clipped a soft lead to his halter and handed the rope to Lily. She walked bravely up the wooden ramp, clucking her tongue softly.
Buster hesitated. He snorted loudly and dug his hooves into the dirt, his eyes rolling back in fear.
Lily turned around, held out her empty hand, and simply waited.
