Ozzy: Chapter 2

The colt did not grow like the others.

On Mike’s farm, the paddocks were alive with young horses, some yearlings, some already two. They were sleek and leggy, full of restless energy, racing each other across the pastures, tails high like banners. They moved in sudden bursts of speed, careening across the fields in joyous rebellion, their dams long weaned and out of sight.

The colt watched them often from afar. When Mike finally turned him out among them, he tried to follow their lead, but his legs tangled beneath him and he tumbled in the dust. The others wheeled around him, sharp-eyed and merciless, nipping at his flanks, driving him from the hay rack. They chased him in until he squealed for his dam’s protection. They sensed weakness, and they made him pay for it.

Mike had seen enough. He moved the colt and Great to a quiet pasture at the back of the farm, away from the bullies. There, he grew in peace, with only the rustle of trees, the steady companionship of his dam, and Sheba’s watchful eyes from the fence line.

There were moments that softened the rough edges of worry. The foal learned to test the world in odd little ways. He pawed at the water trough until it sloshed over, then leapt back as if the splash might bite him. He chewed on fence posts, tugged at the buckles of his dam’s halter, hanging on the fence, and once got his foreleg stuck clean through a hay net, standing bewildered until Mike freed him.

"You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Mike muttered, working the colt’s leg loose while Sheba hovered anxiously at his side. But when the foal leaned his head against Mike’s shoulder as if in thanks, the man sighed and gave his neck a rough pat.

Some evenings, when the sky burned orange and the crickets started up their chorus, the colt would run. His strides were uneven and his turns clumsy, but he ran with such earnest determination that Mike could not help but smile, even while the doubts gnawed at him.

The young horses in the other paddocks had grown into sleek, muscled athletes already showing promise of speed. Their legs were clean, their eyes bright, their movements effortless. The colt was slower to fill out. His stride was clumsy, his understanding of the world dulled at the edges, as if he had missed the memo about being a horse.

One quiet dusk, Mike leaned on the fence, Sheba standing at his side, and studied the foal nursing in the fading light. He should have died, and yet here he was. Against all odds and at great cost, he had survived.

“Oz the Great,” Mike said aloud, testing the name. Great lifted her head, ears flicking at the sound, and the colt turned his gaze toward him with that soft, wondering expression he so often wore.

From that evening on, he was Ozzy. A survivor, yes, but a racehorse? Mike pulled his battered cap lower against the sinking sun. He wanted to believe, but the weight of doubt was settling on his shoulders.

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Weaning day came quieter than most. Mike eased Great out of the pasture and led her to the far side of the farm, where she would be out of sight and earshot. Ozzy stayed behind, pacing the fence line and calling after her with a thin, desperate whinny. She answered once, then settled. This was not her first time. Ozzy, though, circled the paddock until his legs trembled, sides heaving with confusion.

To soften the blow, Mike turned him out with a few of the retired racehorses. Old campaigners with gray hairs flecking their muzzles, they had no interest in bullying the awkward colt. They tolerated him in their slow, patient way, but Ozzy never quite figured out how to belong. He hung back at feeding time, waiting until the others wandered off before creeping up to his bucket on the fence. When the others dozed nose-to-tail in the sunshine, he stood apart, ears half-cocked, as if uncertain of the rules.

Sheba kept vigil outside the fence, her dark eyes following him as faithfully as ever. Now and then one of the old geldings would let him sidle close, but more often than not he drifted at the edges of the herd, alone with his quiet, fumbling ways.

Mike watched, leaning against the weathered fence posts, his arms folded tight across his chest. Ozzy was growing, yes, but not in the way his siblings had. He lacked their confidence, their fluid stride, their eagerness to test the world. Time and again, Mike caught himself asking the question he didn’t want answered: was he setting the colt up for failure?

It was that thought that finally drove his decision. By the time Ozzy was a yearling, Mike hooked up the trailer again. It was earlier than he liked to send a youngster into stalled life, but the training barn might give the colt what he needed. There, among the steady routines and one-on-one handling, perhaps the confusion and loneliness would lift. Perhaps he would find his place before it was too late.

Mike rested his hand briefly on Ozzy’s neck before loading him. The colt turned his head, dark eyes soft and searching.

“Time to give you a fighting chance,” Mike said quietly. Then he closed the trailer door, climbed into the truck, and pointed the rig toward the harness racing training farm.