Free The Horse Whisperer by Nicholas Evans Page A

three

    Harry Logan parked his car under a sign that said
Large Animal Hospital
and thought it odd that a university couldn't come up with wording to indicate more precisely whether it was the animals who were large or the hospital. He got out and trudged through the furrows of gray sludge which were all that remained of the weekend snow. Three days had passed since the accident and as Logan wove his way through the rows of parked cars and trailers, he thought how astonishing it was that the horse was still alive.
    It had taken him nearly four hours to mend that chest wound. It was full of fragments of glass and flakes of black paint from the truck and he had to pick them out and sluice it clean. Then he trimmed the ragged edges of flesh with scissors, stapled up the artery and sewed in some drainage tubes. After that, as his assistants supervised the anesthetic, air supply and a long-overdue blood transfusion, Logan got to work with needle and thread.
    He had to do it in three layers: first the muscle, then the fibrous tissue, then the skin, some seventy stitches in each layer, the inner two of them done with soluble thread. And all this for a horse he thought would never wake up. But the damn thing had woken up. It was incredible. And what's more he had just as much fight in him as he'd had down in the river. As Pilgrim struggled to his feet in the recovery chamber, Logan prayed he wouldn't tear the stitches out. He couldn't face the idea of doing it all over again.
    They had kept Pilgrim on sedatives for the next twenty-four hours by which time they thought he had stabilized enough to stand the four-hour trip over here to Cornell.
    Logan knew the university and its veterinary hospital well, though it had changed a lot since he was here as a student in the late sixties. It held a lot of good memories for him, most of them to do with women. Sweet Jesus, did they have some times. Especially on summer evenings when you could lie under the trees and look down at Lake Cayuga. It was about the prettiest campus he knew. But not today. It was cold and starting to rain and you couldn't even see the damn lake. On top of that, he felt lousy. He had been sneezing all morning, the result no doubt of having his balls frozen off in Kinderhook Creek. He hurried into the warmth of the glass-walled reception area and asked the young woman at the desk for Dorothy Chen, the clinician who was looking after Pilgrim.
    They were building a big new clinic across the road and, as he waited, Logan looked out at the pinched faces of the construction workers and felt better. There was even a little ping of excitement at the thought of seeing Dorothy again. Her smile was the reason he wasn't going to mind driving a couple of hundred miles every day to see Pilgrim. She was like a virgin princess from one of those Chinese art movies his wife liked. A hell of a figure too. And young enough for him to know better. He saw her reflection coming through the door and turned to face her.
    'Hi, Dorothy! How're you doing?'
    'Cold. And not very happy with you.' She wagged a finger at him and frowned, mock-stern. Logan held up his hands.
    'Dorothy, I drive a million miles for one of your smiles, what have I done?'
    'You send me a monster like this and I'm supposed to smile at you?' But she did. 'Come on. We got the X-rays.'
    She led the way through a maze of corridors and Logan listened to her talking and tried not to watch the delicate way her hips moved inside her white coat.
    There were enough X-rays to mount a small exhibition. Dorothy pinned them up on the light box and they stood side by side, studying them. As Logan had thought, there were cracked ribs, five of them, and the nasal bone was broken. The ribs would heal themselves and the nasal bone Dorothy had already operated on. She'd had to lever it out, drill holes and wire it back in place. It had gone well, though they still had to remove the swabs packed into the clotted cavity of Pilgrim's sinus.
    I'll