Free Macadoo of the Maury River by Gigi Amateau

picked up his reins — glad to be moving — and when he did, I walked on and took the shortest way, straight toward the cliff. Once we started, Izzy remembered to lean back, and his weight helped balance us. Izzy relaxed his hands and gave me a long rein. I headed straight for the river, keeping my eyes and nose close to the earth.
    We reached the bottom safely, and Izzy let out a great sigh. Soon, we joined our family, waiting for us downstream in the shallow, rocky part of the Maury River.
    When we arrived, Poppa let out a great sigh, too. “There you are, my lost loves! I was giving you ten more minutes before I came looking. There’s a reason I’ve brought Mac into the mountains with the mules so often, Izzy. Nothing startles them, and mules are smarter than people in the woods. Out here, your Belgian is almost as bright as Job or Molly. They’ve taught him well.”
    Izzy grew as a rider that day, and his confidence grew, too. Mine did, too. For a moment on the trail, I thought I had lost my way until I remembered who I was. Who we were. I wondered if my father would have been proud.

O ne Saturday morning in September, Izzy hurried out to our field carrying his pencils and binoculars well before Molly and Poppa left for Tamworth Springs to help train the new hunting pups. I desperately wanted to go with them and whinnied loud and often to make my wishes clear.
    I could always tell when Poppa and Molly were going to hunt. Even before the season officially opened, Poppa wore his hunting jacket and best riding pants and shined his tall boots whenever the club would ride out to check fences, set courses, or practice with the pack.
    Izzy gave Job and me our breakfast in the field and promised to bring us inside if the day turned too hot. Job had never liked hunting and as old as Molly was then she loved to ride out with Poppa to see her friends at Tamworth Springs. The boy sat in his usual spot on the great granite slab at the top of our paddock. He wrote furiously, the read:
    “September fifteenth, eight a.m., Cedarmont Farm, Buena Vista, Virginia. Eighty degrees by the barn, approximately. Mild day, cruel drought. Oak gone to seed, acorns everywhere, dogwood brittle. Pond nearly dry, no frogs seen or heard. Job and Mac drank all their water last night. They’re grazing together. A beautiful day, but rain, rain, rain would make today perfect.
    Butterflies I’ve already seen this a.m.:
    Spicebush swallowtail rested on mac’s torn ear for a while
    Pipevine swallowtail
    Lots of coppers, a few monarchs, too
    Yellow swallowtail that i think may be a female spicebush of the yellow variety because she’s getting lots of attention from the black one.”
    We were soon captivated with the dance of the spicebush swallowtail, and as Poppa and Molly left Cedarmont for Tamworth Springs, late in the morning on this most beautiful day, Molly whinnied for me. I left Izzy and cantered along the fence as Molly and Poppa passed.
    “I wish I could come with you! Maybe tomorrow Izzy and I will ride to Tamworth Springs, too,” I called after her. “Will the beagles run tomorrow? Will all the horses from all around come back tomorrow? And the man who blows the horn to start the hunt?”
    Molly halted to answer me, but Poppa gave her a little kick. “Walk on, girl,” he said.
    She wouldn’t budge. “It would make me so happy if you and Izzy could come today.”
    Poppa squeezed Molly behind the girth. “What’s gotten into you?”
    I nickered. “Tomorrow, Molly. We will come with you.”
    “Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow.” Then she trotted away.
    I stood at the gate, whinnying until I was sure she was gone. When finally I heard the baying of beagles through the woods, I knew they would not return until the late afternoon.
    Izzy called me back to him. “Quick, Mac! Come here!” he yelled out, and I ran to the far end of the field. “Look!” he said. “The oxeye daisy! Was it here yesterday? How could we have missed this