Macadoo of the Maury River Read Online Free PDF Page B

hearing?”
    Izzy shook his head.
    “Blockage. Silence in a horse’s gut is the sound of blockage. You did the right thing to get him moving. Keep a good eye on him. Make sure he gets plenty of water and is eating normally,” Doctor Russ instructed.
    After that, Izzy came to my paddock night and day to help me adjust to this new life in a place far away from everything I had ever known.
    Some people are like horses, made for joining up with another. Made for belonging. On my second day at Cedarmont, Izzy followed me around for the entire morning. He didn’t let me out of his sight.
    I let the child come near me.
    “I see you,” he said, and reached out his hand.
    When Izzy held his palm open to me, I saw it was empty and felt it was full. Full of love and friendship.
    He said softly, “It’s okay, boy.”
    I believed him. Izzy moved slowly. He advanced one step and lowered his head. He looked down, and when he did I instinctively relaxed my desire to run — a desire that’s always close by. I gave slightly toward him.
    He came close enough for me to hear his breath, but not near enough for me to give him mine. Again, he offered his hand, empty of grain, but with a lingering sweetness of fresh hay or oats and kindness.
    I waited beneath the old, broad cedar and pretended to graze, though the ground around the tree’s roots offered nothing grazeable. I pretended to nibble at granite, dry needles, and black ants. I nibbled at the nothing, and Izzy came closer.
    When I retreated, Izzy did, too. I stepped back. One left, one right, one left. The boy did the same. He walked back three steps and looked at the ground. I rumbled soft gratitude.
    We were speaking. We were sharing a language. He knew me. I knew him. From the beginning, then, it was Izzy and me.
    I stepped out from behind the cedar. I asked myself which would take the most courage: to flee, to run off? Or, would it be braver to lower my head to the boy’s shoulder and follow him? Izzy walked up to me, and I let him clip a lead to my halter.
    “I know your name,” said Izzy. “It’s right here on your halter, the one you were wearing when we bought you.” He pointed to the nameplate. “Macadoo. Says so right here.”
    And, with that spoken word, I had a name that would never let me forget that I had come through death, a name that would remind me of leaving Alberta with John Macadoo and Mamere.
    Macadoo.
The sound of my new name also bound me in service to this boy.

C an I just call you Mac?” Izzy asked me one day.
    I kept eating, with Izzy holding me on a long rope. He apologized for not letting me graze freely. “Poppa thinks you need to get used to me and I need to get used to you. He thinks you can help me.”
    While Poppa rode into the mountain every day for exercise and fresh air, Izzy would stay behind at Cedarmont, content to observe in the field. “I’m practicing science, Mac, and you can help me,” Izzy would say.
    He may not have been a horseman yet, but Izzy had become a disciplined observer of the natural world. He carried his notebook everywhere and noticed even the smallest details of the day. In some way, I think, the natural world eased the great grief that lived inside him. Being with Izzy eased my grief, too.
    For hours, until well after lunch, which we ate in the pasture, Izzy would lean against me and read his findings aloud:
    “August twenty-fourth, three p.m., Mac’s field, Cedarmont Farm, Buena Vista, Virgina. Ninety-five degrees: full sun, no rain, no clouds. Lots of grass still in the salad bar. Mac likes hay, too. A green inchworm, with yellow eyes, crawls across Mac’s front left hoof. Mac doesn’t mind. A kingbird sitting on the wood post flies out for a bug, goes back to the post, flies out. Goes back. Poppa’s roses are blooming but with black spots on the leaves. The sun has turned Mac golden.
    Birds I’ve seen today:
    Kingbird — one.
    Wood pewee — one.
    Blue jay — one.
    Mockingbird — one.
    Canada