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“That’s my good, good girl.” Even the quality of his voice is different. It’s pitched softer with a gentle croon to it.
Though I can’t say I’ve never heard it like that before.
No, with a startled shock, I realize it’s the same tone he’s used with me after I’ve complied in the bedroom. Or… the bath.
That revelation’s about as welcome as Lulu seems to find having another female around her favorite man.
When Xavier tries to introduce me to her, her ears constantly flick back and forth. She blows out a loud huff of air through her nostrils, pulling away and turning her head toward Xavier like, who dis bitch?
I yank my hand back since I’m not especially inclined to lose a finger before lunchtime. Or, you know, ever.
Xavier clicks his teeth at her and she ducks her nose, chastened. She butts her head into him again and he soothes her, then attempts the introduction again.
By the end of the introduction, Lulu reluctantly sniffs me, which earns her a carrot from Xavier’s pocket. When did he get those? Looking down, though, I see his pockets are stuffed with them.
Guess he’s anticipating I’m going to be a real hit with his fan club.
Because it’s not just Lulu that he seems to have such a special bond with. He introduces me to a string of other animals, all of whom react almost the exact same way Lulu did. Ok, that’s not fair. Even as a person who doesn’t know a thing about horses, I can already begin to make out little personality differences. Though, by the time we get to the back pasture I’m not sure I’m getting all their names right.
There was Pioneer, Sundance Kid, Holy Hellfire—I remember him because he was one of the pasture horses who looked so old I was shocked he was still standing upright. Then there was Tornado, Bob—that’s right, just, Bob, and Paddyshack. Not Caddyshack, I double-checked. No, it’s Paddyshack.
Xavier tells me the stories of some of them. Pioneer threw his owner so hard, he broke his leg.
The owner was threatening to put the horse down, so Xavier took him in. Several others are retired racehorses past their prime.
“Is Holy Hellfire one of those?” I ask as we walk past another low building—another set of stables, I’m guessing. As grouchy as I still might be about being led around like a pack animal, I have to say this is all sort of interesting. And Xavier’s spoken more this morning than during the entirety of my time with him so far. That seems like something to encourage.
He shakes his head at my inquiry, the right side of his mouth tilting. “No, he just spent his whole life being ornery.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “What do you mean?”
“Ever heard of a racehorse called Bierbaum?”
“If he didn’t make Page 6 in the Post, it wasn’t in my sphere.”
He shakes his head at me. “Think Secretariat or Man o’ War.”
At my continued blank stare, he tosses his hand in the air. “Seabiscuit?”
“Oh,” I perk up. “Wasn’t that a movie?”
He draws in a long breath as if searching for patience.
“Okay, well just picture one of the greatest racehorses of the twentieth century. That was Bierbaum. And Holy Hellfire was one of his foals. Everyone in the racing world expected great things of him.”
“And you…” I look out in the direction of the pasture where we met Holy Hellfire, “or your family, bought this foal? Or your parents owned the mare or whatever?”
Xavier shakes his head. “No, I didn’t get him until much later. It was one of the wealthiest and most prominent racing families back east who bred him. They had all the best trainers work with him. But whenever they tried racing him… nada.”
He shrugs, lifting his hands. “He just wouldn’t run. He’s a dreamer. Too interested in his own horse thoughts or staring at the clouds.”
I pull back and look at him. “Really? Even with his dad being some super champion?”
Xavier keeps walking. “The mare had good racing bloodlines, too. No explanation for it. The family that invested so much in it tried everything from expensive trainers to medicine men. Finally sold him off to try to recoup some of their losses.” Xavier’s expression sours, the furrow between his brow deepening, which causes the burned half of his face to take on a menacing appearance. “That’s when things got bad for my boy.”
He comes to another paddock where two horses graze in the distance, a honey-colored one and another that’s a darker brown. He leans his elbows on the fence so that he’s in profile, the good side of his face toward me.
“His owners didn’t pay close enough attention to who they sold him off to. The new owners were bastards who thought they knew better than all the professionals. They tried to force him to race by whipping and abusing him, shooting him full of illegal steroids. They got a few off-circuit races out of him, but he was uncontrollable and more hazard than he was worth. He was found crazed and half-starved when the DEA raided a stable yard in Arizona. They were about to put him down when I offered to pasture him here.”
