Tessie D

I stopped yesterday before I got to this part. 

I wish I’d hadn’t. 

I wish I’d written it down already.

Momma and I got up early on Monday morning to get Prince ready since, before Daddy could take Prince to the sale, he’d needed his shots. 

Momma got the medicine from the refrigerator and drew up the shots while I pulled on my boots and an oversized sweatshirt. We walked outside and across the backyard toward the barn and corral on the edge of the 5-acre patch.

It was early—not even 7:00 a.m.—and the air smelled wet and faintly of cow manure. The sun was just coming up, so it was still so chilly that the dew hadn’t evaporated yet, making the grass look like it was covered in an iridescent sheen. Beyond the fence line, near the dried up creek bed, I could see the yellow wildflowers beginning to bud. 

When we got to the barn, I talked into the tack room and grabbed the guide rope. I went back out to the corral, and typically, I’d fasten the guide rope’s metal clasp to Prince’s leather harness, but we’d sold the leather harness along with the saddle. So, instead, I looped the end of the rope through the handle and slid the makeshift lead over his neck. Then I clasped the metal end to a hook in a fence post. I made sure the lead was loose enough that Prince wasn’t uncomfortable and had a just enough give that he could shake his head but not enough to buck. 

I pulled a few sugar cubes out of my pocket and offered them to him, “Shhh, good boy. You’re a good boy.” Prince nuzzled his nose into my palm, his tongue and lips working in unison to collect his treat. I used my other hand to scratch the firm spot behind his ear and watched as they twitched, signaling his pleasure. 

Momma pulled the capped syringes from her pocket and handed them to me. Momma stood off to the side and watched as I walked toward his hind quarters. Momma was a nurse, but it was important to her that we knew how to take care of the animals. It was as much our responsibility as hers. I was facing away from his head, near his belly, staying clear to avoid a kick if he were to get spooked. 

It all happened so quickly that I don’t know if I had even had a chance to push down on the needle’s plunger. 

As soon as I jabbed the needle into the firm muscle of Prince’s hind leg, he immediately dropped to his knees—his quarters suddenly paralyzed. His body began to contort as he fought to stay up on his front legs despite the weight of his hind legs pulling him down. Prince raised his head above him, his nose soundless pointing toward the eye, his eyes moving furtively from side to side, looking for me to help. The breathe escaped his body so quickly that I could only stand in horror as I watched and realized too late what had happened: I struck a nerve in Prince’s leg, paralyzing him. Then the rope caught and tightened around his neck into a noose hanging him from the fence post.

All Momma and I could do was watch. It must have been only seconds. Time simultaneously slowed down and sped up. Momma screamed out in horror and ran to Prince, crouching down behind his hind legs. She leaned forward, throwing her body weight against him, as if could lift Prince up and ease some of the tension in the rope around his neck. 

“Tess, a knife! Get a knife!” She yelled at me.

I looked furtively on the ground for a knife, a saw, a blade—anything to cut the rope—but there was nothing but grass and mud. I ran into the tack room, shuffling the tools, nails, and bolts that laid scattered on the workbench. I saw a small folded pocket knife sitting on the corner and grabbed it, running back to the corral. Prince’s mouth was open and his tongue was out. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head. I started sawing into the rope but the knife was dull and too small. I tried moving the knife faster and faster, pressing it into the rope until my wrist began to ache, willing it to break from the knife’s pressure if not from its edge.

Momma was crying and screaming, “No, no! Oh my God, no!” I could feel my heart racing and beads of cold sweat gathering at the small of my back. 

Eventually, the rope began to splinter under Prince’s weight and finally broke with a loud snap. His upper body and head fell onto the ground, his head positioned awkwardly, but he wasn’t moving, his heavy body laid on its side with his head still angled toward the metal post that he had been tied to. 

I threw myself onto him and began pushing into his ribcage, trying to coax him back to breathing. Momma came up to where I was standing and started doing the same thing, that somehow we could both, somehow, do something something, anything that would bring him back. I begged and pleaded for Prince to “wake up,” “come back,” “please, Oh God, please don’t die.” 

I could feel his body grow more rigid, despite my efforts to revive him. Still, I couldn’t stop. I could see the horror unfolding in front of us—the tragic absurdity of the morning—but I powerless to change the outcome. Minutes, hours, days went by, and we had to concede the reality that Prince—a lovely creature, our hope, my chance—was gone.