Thirty Dollar Pineapple

Late last fall, the scrawny colt tripped on his way into the sale ring as the driver's whip snapped behind him. Lifting his head, his dark brown eyes' gaze darted in every direction, searching for a way out. The auctioneers voice crackled, crying in vain for a bid on this three-month-old colt with its dirty yellow coat stretched across washboard ribs. 


"Thirty dollars! Thirty dollars! Who'll give me thirty dollars for this palomino? He's got color!"


I nudged my husband in the side. "Quick! Raise your hand before it's too late." I looked around the room. I knew the auctioneer wouldn't cry for long. People were ignoring him, and the door swung open on the far side of the ring. In a moment, the colt would be driven out of the ring, back into the pens, as a "No Sale." At the end of the day, someone with a gun would put him out of his misery.


The auctioneer saw my husband's hand before I did. "Thirty dollars!" he hollered. "Sold!"

We left the ring and finally found our colt crammed into a small hog pen at the very back of the auction building. I stroked his neck and felt the muscles bunch tight beneath my hand. "It's okay, buddy," I crooned, but the white-eyed colt wasn't having any of it. He fought us every step of the way to our horse trailer, and three hours later, we ran him down the alleyway into the back stall of our barn. We shook our heads.

 "Pineapple" as my daughter christened him, looked more like a withered yellow squash than his namesake. His spindly legs seemed inadequate to hold him upright.

"Weaned too young," my husband said, and I nodded my agreement. With fall approaching, and grass becoming sparse, many people decided to dump foals at the sale barn, rather than feed them through the long mid-western winter. There's no substitute for a mother's milk, and foals weaned too early can die, no matter how much good feed you put in front of them. Throughout those frigid  months we wondered often if we'd done the right thing. We put one of our own weaned foals in the stall to keep him company, and he seemed to enjoy the company. Once he overcame his fear of humans, Pineapple's gentle nature surfaced, and our daughter spent many hours brushing and petting him.

When spring came, we turned the two youngsters into the pasture where they could run, play and grow up.
          

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Today, I carried hay out of the barn to give to the horses. Even though they spend all day grazing, we like them to come up near the barn each morning so we can check on them.

Pineapple whinnied in greeting, his eyes soft and warm. Beneath the remnants of some lighter woolly hair on his sides, a beautiful coat shines like a golden coin. His body has filled out and his ribs have vanished. I walked up to the gentle colt, and stroked his soft neck, brushing wisps of hay from his white mane.

"You're a pretty boy, aren't you?" I said, as he munched on a mouthful of alfalfa. It's hard to believe this beautiful, young horse is the same half-starved colt we brought home just seven months and I'm sure glad we gave him a chance.

I don't know how long Pineapple will stay here at Rainbow Gate Farm. Often visitors to our farm will fall in love with a particular foal and they are sold, making way for the new crop of babies born each spring. Many are eventually forgotten, but others are etched forever in our hearts.

Pineapple will canter through my memories for a long time to come.