Mom stood looking out the big east kitchen window of our red brick farm house, “Susan! Look out the window, Cheryl’s outside with Blackie. Leading him in the rain!”

I dropped my library book, uncurled my legs and jumped up in one quick movement, pressing my face against the living room window. There was my best friend leading her black horse along our driveway, turning him around to walk back toward the gravel road, then turning again. Usually she would be astride her sleek horse, golden hair flying in the breeze, a big smile on her face, looking for fun and adventure. But this trip was different. She led him with an old wool blanket thrown over his back, his head hanging low, ears back, repeatedly halting and reluctant to move.

“That’s weird,” I grabbed a coat, stepped into my boots, and ran out the back door.

Jogging towards them I could see her face streaked with tears and raindrops, her lips moving as she whispered to her horse.

“Cheryl! What’s wrong?” I gave her a quick hug as she continued walking. Falling into step, I rested my hand on the damp, black neck still soft and thick with the remnants of a winter coat.

“Oh Susan!” New tears rolled down her face and she caressed his forehead. She controlled her shuddering breath, “He ate rhubarb leaves. They’re poison!”  Fresh sobs shook her as she rested her face against him, cheek to cheek.

“Oh……” my voice faded, my stomach churned.

“I have to keep him walking all day – the vet said. Can’t let him lay down or he’ll die!” Her lips trembled and she wiped tears and raindrops from her face then carefully from his, “What if he dies?” Her eyes wide, eyelashes wet, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks, she looked to me for an answer that I didn’t have.

“We’ll keep him walking…..all day, like the vet said.”

“I’ve already been walking him for hours – he’s no better,” her voice cracked.

“He will be,” I wished that I felt as confident as I sounded.

Together we walked and walked in the rain, up and down the driveway past the old garage, the small red feed room, the barns, the granary, around the corncrib, through the orchard, along the row of evergreens, past the gardens, under the magnificent arch of maple trees that lined the road in front of my parent’s farm. When the rain lashed, we escaped under the roof of the double corncrib, turning him in circles in the enclosed space. My Mom appeared with snacks, checking to make sure we were still warm and dry.

Blackie kept stopping and refusing to move, turning his head to touch his nose to his stomach, flicking his tail up and down in quick bursts, laying his ears back in distress. His big brown eyes gazed dully at the ground as we prodded him into motion repeatedly. Again he stubbornly stopped but this time bringing one hind leg up to kick at his belly. He began lifting and bending his forelegs like he was marching in place, collected his hind legs in closer, his whole body arching like he was going to roll.

”He’s going down! Help me! Keep him moving!” Cheryl hauled on the rope like she was in a tug-a-war, dragging him forward with me pushing and slapping his hindquarters. We yanked, pestered and pleaded with him until he was off balance enough that he had to take one step forward then another. We were on our way again – he wasn’t going to lie down on our watch.

All afternoon we plodded on, Cheryl never taking a break, never sitting down. The tears had stopped. Her face was set, corners of her mouth down in a hard line, all work, no play in her eyes. This was my first glimpse into how strong my friend was, not just physically, but her quiet, inner strength.

Then gradually we noticed it. Blackie didn’t poke at his stomach as often, his ears relaxed, he willingly walked with us on our circuit of the yard, his eyes seemed brighter and more alert, and he glanced with interest towards our barnyard where my horse watched and nickered. Eventually all the small signs became obvious. He was out of danger and the vet was right – it did take all day. We stopped walking. Blackie leaned his head against her chest and closed his eyes. She cradled his head in her arms, her fingers weaved into his mane.

“I’m going home,” Cheryl announced, her face blossoming into a smile, “Thank you.” And I watched as the pair walked the half mile back up the gravel road to her Grandmother’s barn, Blackie rubbing his head against her shoulder, then her arm encircling his neck. Despite her exhaustion, Cheryl’s stance was straight and tall, her step lively, her attitude poised and self-confident. I think my friend grew two inches that day.

Illustrations by Lori Milos-Ivanski

Lori Milos-Ivanski is a visual artist, writer, and photographer. As a visual artist she works primarily in the mediums of acrylic paint, pen and ink, graphite, and wood. Located in rural South Western Ontario, Lori draws inspiration for her work from the nature of the Carolinian landscape and local small communities. You can explore more of Lori’s work at https://milosivanskistudio.wordpress.com/