Billy

He liked beer. He would noisily toss off an entire beer, the bottleneck clenched tightly between his front teeth, head tipped back, chugging like a drunk at 12:01 on a Sunday afternoon. His name was Billy. He was my horse. During the seven years I owned Billy I counted him as one of my best friends. Sure we had our misunderstandings, but nothing a cold beer and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich couldn't fix. He was a large horse, and I, a small girl. We were a perfect match. His back was taller than the top of my head, even when I stood on tippy-toes. I would ordinarily look him square in the mouth, but he would always bring his head to my level-his soft brown eyes looking into my hazel ones, so we were equals.   My parents bought Billy for me when I was in the fifth grade. We had just purchased a big place in Belleville, with ten acres and an eight-stall barn, so it seemed only appropriate we should round up a mustang or two. With the land we had also purchased a large kennel business -- with a total 57 kennels we were the second largest kennel in Michigan. What did we know of dogs or livestock? Not very much. We were city folk. Subdivision dwellers from the mean streets of Westland, hot for the open air and freedom of the country, as ignorant as the Beverly Hillbillies, but in reverse. Our ignorance didn't stop us from setting up our own little backwater paradise, however. We bought a couple Holstein calves--to be butchered at some later, undisclosed date, a few mallard ducks, who only hung around for a short time, (my dad didn't know he had to have their wings clipped), and two dozen Rhode Island Red hens plus a few roosters that we hadn't asked for and that met their end soon enough. (That's part of another story.) We felt like we were in heaven. The girl we bought Billy from had turned 18 and was moving away to college. I never forgot that look in her eyes when we said, "We'll take him!" She cried on her father's shoulder as we drove down the dirt road, hauling her once best friend away in our rented horse trailer. Happy though I was, I felt sorry for her at the same time.   Our ignorance about horses was complete. That we managed to keep Billy alive that first year was a miracle. He was a master of escape, a master of pranks, a master of gluttony. On one occasion he used his highly maneuverable upper lip to flip the hang lock off the tack room door and shoulder his way in. The food was stored in a large metal garbage can with a tightly fitted lid. That didn't stop him. For the next 12 hours he ate a feast of sweet feed (molasses covered grain); nearly 40 pounds of it. I found him the next morning, our tack room wrecked, the floor slick with piss and shit, his belly so bloated he almost couldn't make it out the door. But grain wasn't Billy's favorite binge food; apples were. Several decades before we arrived our property was an apple orchard. The remaining dozen ancient trees bore three kinds of apples--red delicious, mackintosh, and a small bitter green apple we could never identify. Billy had no trouble identifying them; to him, they were all delicious. Starting mid-summer he would stretch his satiny neck, eyes rolling in his head, to nibble at the fruit hanging on the lowest branches. For the next month his breath would smell green-apple grassy, his lips frothed with the still bitter fruit, until he cleared the bottom branches of the trees. Then the Great Wait would begin. I would often find him standing beneath the apple trees, eyes lolling in his head as he squinted up to the ripening fruit just beyond his reach. He checked the trees daily -- perchance an apple would gain enough bulk to pull the branch within his reach. After a time, he learned to bite the lower branches with his teeth and shake them violently, sometimes causing an apple shower, but mostly just to express his frustration over the feast out of his reach. Billy soon got fat with his apple bingeing and nonstop grazing. Our eleven acres of field were lush with clover and alfalfa -- only during the winter months did we have to subsidize his feed with grains and baled hay. He was a jealous glutton, often chasing off the cows if they strayed too near his choice grazing area. It wasn't unusual to find him wedged in the chicken coop, furry muzzle covered in cracked corn meal, chickens clucking their displeasure. His ability to open a door, any door, was due to the versatility of his limber upper lip. With it he could open stall doors, lift fence latches, twist doorknobs, and turn on water spigots. Soon it was evident that every door leading to any kind of food supply would have to be locked, but not with the standard hanging lock so familiar on most horse farms. Billy could open them. No, we had to use padlocks. With keys. One morning Billy decided to explore the kennel building. He used his teeth to grip the doorknob and turn. The dog food was kept in a large can similar to the one that held sweet feed in the tack room, he had no problem getting it open-he ate twenty five pounds of puppy pellets before deciding to explore the rest of the building. My mother heard the dogs in the kennel making an exceptional racket and decided to take a look--sometimes a dog would get loose and start the rest of them howling for freedom. Instead of a dog wandering among the kennels, she found Billy. He calmly walked to her amid the chorus of crazed barks and howls, waiting for a scratch on the nose and a hand getting out of that madhouse. My mother was not amused. Billy was an indiscriminate eater. He would sample any kind of food he could lay his lips on. He once ripped open a garbage bag and had a feast of leftover roast beef (Billy was a frustrated carnivore). He eventually noticed how the barn cats would gather at the back door of the kennel, late mornings, waiting for their daily treat of real cat food. Billy would see the feline gathering and push his way to the bowls, big hooves placed carefully among the small cats, his muzzle gently pushing them aside, eating in three or four bites what would have fed half a dozen cats. Only one of our cats was brave enough to protest. Her name was Fluffy. We had inherited her with the property. She was white as a new snow, tough as old leather, and smart as. . . well, really smart. When Billy pushed his nose into her food she turned and swatted the big horse's muzzle with claws sharp as razors, drawing blood and a startled whinny. He never intruded on Fluffy's bowl again. Instead, he'd hang his head nearby, huffing his breath through his widened nostrils, waiting for her to finish and head off for her nap in the sun before he stuck his prehensile lip into the bowl, scooping out the leftovers. Fluffy and Billy had an understanding. She was the dominant stallion, and Billy never forgot it.   Billy was a gentle horse, despite his size. He would step carefully between cats or chickens or children scattered along the barn floor. I liked to scare my mother, telling her to come to the barn to see the newest trick Billy had learned. There my mother would stand, hands on hips, and wait patiently as I settled Billy with a nudge and a pat, preparing him for The Big Trick. Then I would duck beneath his big belly, coming out the other side. Then between his front legs, out from between his back legs. His patience was saintly. One day I stretched out on the dusty floor and, like a trained elephant, Billy gently lifted his big hoof at my urging and placed it square on my stomach. That one had my mother shouting before we could finish the show. Billy enjoyed our performances. Not once did he kick me or step on my toes. I felt as if he was a human spirit in the body of a horse, he was so careful with me. When I crouched in the curve of his chest with my tiny bare feet perched on his heavy hooves, his grassy sweet breath caressing the hair at the nape of my neck, I knew he really loved me. Billy could put on an evil face. My older brothers feared him, my dad avoided him, and my friends refused to ride him. He had a way of expressing himself with his body language. Ears laid back and nose twitching if he was annoyed, ears forward and swiveling if he was interested and feeling friendly. You knew instantly if he disliked you -and you'd better be running quickly if that proved to be the case. It was as if he could smell a person's fear - and then he'd play on their anxiety. My mother's greatest fear was that this great bumbling beast would step on my delicate, bare feet - or hers. In her presence Billy would stamp one of his feet, again and again, pretending to dislodge a biting fly or some other nuisance. It made her nervous. When my father would try to scratch behind Billy's ears, something he loved for me to do, Billy would toss his head violently, pretending to be head shy. My father learned to keep his hands to himself. Billy loved to terrorize my brothers. He held some secret grudge and wouldn't tolerate them in his barn or corral. We have a video of Billy chasing down my brother Jeff, who-at the last possible moment before Billy's teeth seized posterior flesh-rolled beneath the corral fence, to the applause and laughter of the entire family. (Jeff can run really fast when his life depends on it.)   Even though Billy exhibited the characteristics of a grumpy old man, it was really a facade. Underneath he was a gentle soul. Some animals he would not tolerate--like dogs. His ears flattened against his head, he would chase the dogs out of his paddock. Teeth clacking mere inches from the dog's bunched flanks and tucked tails, Billy was a vision of fury in the defense of his territory. But he loved cats and chickens. If a chicken curled in the tall grass near the barn, napping in the warmth of the afternoon sun, Billy would wander over and nuzzle the sleeping bird with a gentle "whuff, whuff," his breath ruffling the sleeping bird's feathers. Cats also fascinated him. At first his nudging and blowing startled the small animals. Caught unawares the cat or chicken would leap up with a howl or a cluck and bolt for cover, misinterpreting Billy's caress as an attack. In time, though, the objects of Billy's affection became accustomed to his attention. They began to return his tenderness with a trust that was innocent and extraordinary. It wasn't unusual to see an animal or two curled up in the hollow of his broad back, a passenger sleeping or pecking at the buzzing flies, while he grazed unconcerned around the field. Customers to my mother's kennel often took pictures of this unusual sight. Copying the cats, I too would lie on his back, baking in the afternoon sunshine, lulled by his slow shuffling into a quasi-sleep until his tail lashing after a bug would wallop me in the face. Once I truly fell asleep on his back. I don't know how long I slept, but I vividly remember tumbling to the ground in a heap when Billy took off after a stray dog that had wandered into the field.   Billy eventually learned to untie the paddock fence, the only gate that wouldn't accommodate a padlock. Instead of a lock we had taken an old leather lead and looped it numerous times around the gate, tying it off with a large knot. In the dead of the night I would sit bolt upright in my bed, my mind ringing with some soundless call I could never ignore. Slipping into my dirty jeans and baggy sweatshirt I'd rush downstairs, careful not to waken my parents at such an ungodly hour. I knew before I opened the door that Billy would be there, standing at the bottom of the back steps, a soft nicker to greet me. He was lonely. Without saying a word I would lead him back to the barn, laughing inside as we passed the gate with the leather strap hanging wet with his spit. I'd curl up on a bale of hay in the tack room, wrapped in the least-smelly saddle blanket I could find, and spend the rest of the night under the watchful eye of my best friend.   The summer before I went away to college my dad decided it was time to sell Billy. I kept an emotional distance from the situation, concentrating instead on the preparations for my new life. I ignored the big sign tacked up on the mailbox that read "Horse for Sale." For two weeks no one stopped to inquire about Billy and I was secretly relieved. Perhaps no one would want him and I could keep him for a little longer. But that was no to be. One lazy afternoon Billy and I were wandering through the corral that stood next to the road. Once again I was just along for the ride, no saddle or bridle, stretched out on his back as he munched his way around, looking for the greenest patches of grass. A car slowed as it passed, then stopped and backed up. I didn't pay much attention to it-many of my mother's customers passed the driveway before realizing their mistake. But then I saw a little girl's face pressed up to the back window of the car, her eyes wide, her mouth moving with silent excitement. And I knew. They stood at the fence and gaped, amazed as I guided Billy to the corral gate using only soft words and a hand pressed to his neck in place of a bridle. The little girl reached a tentative hand through the fence-Billy bent his head and tickled it with his furry muzzle. They asked me to saddle him up and take him through his moves. I did, and I was proud. Billy was a performer. After several turns around the corral, we cantered back to the fence. My dad was having an animated conversation with the man and his wife. The little girl crouched at their feet looking ready to explode with horse-love. When I heard the words "We'll take him" my heart stopped. Without thought I wheeled Billy around and headed out the gate, down the road and into the woods at the back of a field-stopping only when I knew I couldn't be heard by another person. I shrieked, then bawled. Soon my shirt was wet with tears. I slipped down from Billy's back and folded my arms around his big neck. We stayed there until it was dark. The next day they came for him. The big rented horse trailer filled the parking lot in front of the kennel and I watched them from my upstairs window as the man tried to turn it around. Unfamiliar with pulling a trailer, he had jackknifed it into a corner of the lot and was stuck. I had vowed to stay in my room and ignore the entire proceedings-Billy and I had said our good-byes. After it became obvious that neither my dad nor the man could get the trailer out without digging up a few yards of sod, my dad motioned up to my window, asking me to come down. I sidled up to the truck, my face swollen from my night of crying. "Get out," was all I said. I was the trailer driver in the family, even though I was only seventeen and just a small spit of a girl. The man looked at my dad and my dad nodded. The man stepped aside. The little girl eyed me from behind the curve of the back seat. After adjusting the seat I sat still behind the wheel, thinking backward through the tangle of truck and trailer. My rearview mirror was filled with the girl's freckled face and round hazel eyes, much like my own, and she stared boldly back at me.   "Ready?" I said, startling myself. I hadn't meant to say anything to her at all. She nodded. I untangled the trailer with a few short turns. The man and his wife cheered and clapped as I stepped out of the truck. I walked to the fence where Billy was tethered as they opened the loading gate of the trailer. His eyes told me he knew he was going. I wasn't ashamed to feel the tears start again. Billy never let anyone load him except me, so I knew I'd have to do it. I couldn't let Billy's last memories of his time here be of my dad whipping him with a switch, trying to bully him into a strange trailer. Snapping off the tether, I cupped my hand beneath his chin--feeling for the last time that bristled muzzle lipping at my knuckles. He walked without a lead, his hooves click-clacking on the asphalt of the parking lot, his breath warming my hand where it touched his nose. We stepped into the trailer together, a big horse and a small girl. At the front of the trailer I hooked the snap on his halter and leaned against him. Putting my arms around his neck I hugged him for the last time and looked into his eyes. "You be nice to her, you hear me? She'll love you just as much as I have, so you be nice to her." Squeezing by him as I made my way to the back gate, I ran my hands down the satiny side of his body. The little girl stood at the back of the trailer, her face an odd mixture of excitement and pity. I patted her on the head and walked to the barn, not looking back. I could not watch as they drove away. Instead, I sat on a bale of hay in the tack room, wrapped in an old saddle blanket that smelled of Billy, and cried. That saddle blanket is tucked into a closet in my basement, along with my saddle and bridle. It sits and waits for the next Billy in my life, should I ever find one. I doubt that I will, though. I have a feeling he was one of a kind.