Dawn Filly

The young horse snorted loudly through her nostrils in the dewey morning air. She tasted the air currents through her velvety nose- a deer had passed through this paddock nearly an hour ago. She snorted again and liked the feel of forcing the air out of her lungs- it certainly must make her look grown up to the other horses, she mused. She dimly remembered her mother making a similar sound on brisk, bright days when she felt playful.

Standing near the red gate, just inside the boards of the large paddock, she was unaware of her blossoming beauty as she snorted and tested the wind again. The weight of her strawberry blonde mane and tail lifted slightly as the wind fluttered. There was no other horse in the paddock that morning with her distinct coloring. She was a bright, sunny red roan whose coat rippled with an opaqueness that rivaled the underbelly of a sea shell. The rosy tone reminded the onlooking horses of the pink sky they had stood beneath at dawn a few hours earlier.

Sensing her playfulness, Baton Rouge galloped toward the filly with a ferocity that seemed out of place in the peaceful stillness of the meadow. His dullish brown coat rippled across wirey muscles as he skidded to an ungraceful halt several feet in front of her.

"Morning, Wendy," he exclaimed in a squawky, croaking voice. He and Wendy had been foaled two Springs before- just a month apart. She was sixteen months old, he was fifteen. He lowered his eyes in a moment of awkwardness as his voice broke like a teenage boy ready to change to a man.

As she was unaware of her beauty, thus he was equally unaware of his awkwardness. His legs were not quite straight, his neck a little too upright, his ears a little too large. She, on the other hand, like a head cheerleader or prom queen, was perfection, yet thankfully, unaffected by it.

Baton Rouge was the son of a Thoroughbred mare named Vin Rouge. She was blue-blood, even in the Bluegrass, where everyone fancied themself blue. Once upon a time, Vin Rouge had set the record in Philadelphia while running one and one quarter miles. No one had beaten that record yet. She held tenaciously to it and wore the glory of her accomplishment like a shawl wrapped around her at all times.

"Morning, Bat," Wendy answered, looking around her as if to escape further conversation. She knew where this was headed and she felt dread settle over her instantly. He wanted to race. She was bred to be a Western Pleasure horse- her DNA was configured for its propensity to lift her body like a ballerina and artfully carry her across the ground in a slow, languid pace. She knew this and so did he.

The other foals had always avoided play with Baton Rouge. He was faster than they- and his personality had a hint of cruelty- an edge- that was foreign to them. Wendy often felt sorry for him. She reasoned that the hard edge came from his competitive nature- that, and being raised by a race track mother. Vin Rouge was gritty and hard and so was her son.
Wendy cautioned herself not to be baited by him. Just as she knew his nature, Baton Rouge knew hers. She was also deeply competitive- but the sort borne of character. She was blue-blood herself. As a Quarter Horse, her father, Chevy was royalty and her mother, Nikki, was a grand duchess. She was their offspring and if her mother's gentle teachings were not enough- the inner song of her soul served constant reminder of her destiny. At this farm, greatness was a birthright and each foal wore it like a cloak. Surrounded by these future princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses, Baton Rouge grew frustrated and a tad bit angry. Each of these Quarter Horse foals assumed that they were special and were fawned over by the humans.

"So, your highness," he taunted, "I see they've taken you off your leash for a while."

Wendy felt an ember flare inside her and tried to douse it with reason.

"I am to be a great show horse and the humans treasure me", she replied. "That is why they keep me safe in the barn."

"You must be weak and cannot run," he jibed cruelly, "or they would not keep you there."

The ember flared into anger now. She knew he was baiting her, surely as she knew she must rise to the challenge. With the reasoning of a teenage mind, she thought perhaps, since she was a month older than he, she might beat him today.

She did not waste time for a reply and gathered her muscular haunches beneath her. In a powerful leap, she burst away from him. He lifted his neck, coiled his muscles, and raced behind her. With each gathering of her hindquarters, she opened the distance between them. The Quarter Horse is named for its ability to run one quarter of a mile faster than any other breed. Wendy, however, was the product of a different type of Quarter Horse. Her parents were bred for strengh, collection, and athletic ability- but at a much slower pace. Her genetics could only support her folly for a few more strides and then the Thoroughbred began to overtake her. She wanted so badly to beat him today. Her heart swelled with the want of it. She begged her legs for more. He sneered as he realized that she was at the peak of her effort. All great race horses shared certain traits- an instinct for the kill, the ability to sense weakness and exploit it in a competitor. Like a prosecuting attorney with a faltering witness on the stand, Baton Rouge surged forward and extended his stride to exploit her lapse in confidence.

His cruel bent surfaced as he blew past her heavy form. She was at the apex of her effort and he revealed that he had been toying with her. His nature was one to bully. Perhaps his scrawny frame dictated that he further torment the beautiful one. It was not enough that he bested her, he wanted to know that she was humiliated.

To Be Continued...