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I race to get him out. Every second counts. For a moment, I forget where I am and what I’m doing as I go into a full-fledged panic. He’s screaming, choking, and gasping for air. He needs me. I despise that about him. I wish he wouldn’t have gotten himself in there in the first place.


Rewind to a few hours before this unfortunate event. It was four-thirty in the evening and I had just ridden the horses and fed them dinner. The dogs know this routine and they harass me constantly unless I feed them directly after. We head up the steps to the back deck, I have to grab the rail because Harlan likes to race me and attempt take me out at the knee. I feed the dogs, and pour myself a glass of my new favorite Malbec, “Fat Bastard,” and head back outside to clean stalls.


As I am shoveling loose hay into the corner of Dover’s stall, I wonder why horses are so picky about hay. Hay is the biggest fad I know…in today, out tomorrow. I find myself ridiculously catering to the pickiness of my horses as I am filling tomorrow’s hay nets with three flakes, each from a different bale.


Stalls are cleaned, buckets scrubbed, animals are fed. Time to relax. That’s when I notice him. I’m not sure how long he’d been in there, or if he was even still alive. How could I let this happen? How could I be so careless and inattentive? I pick him up to get a closer look. Yep, he’s still alive. I stick my hand through the opening wiggling my fingers to try to reach his tiny legs, but it doesn’t fit. Hastily, I lower one finger right in front of his almost lifeless body. Panicked and distraught he latches on and I hoist him to safety…or so he thought.


As soon as he was out I flung him to the ground and stomped on his body with my boot. I blame him for ruining it. For his nastiness. For existing. After all was said and done, I didn’t feel remorse, but I learned a valuable lesson about life on the farm. Always cover up your wine glass, flies are drunk bastards.

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