Remembering Duke and Dan

When I was 13, my dad bought a team of work horses. Duke was solid black. Dan was a sorrel - a sort of reddish brown. These were big, broad-backed horses, capable of pulling heavy loads. Both were sold as "broke to harness". We led them home and turned them to pasture. The next morning we harnessed the team and attempted to hitch them to some sort of two-horse farm implement, probably a cultivator.

Duke was the sweetest animal one could imagine. He stood quietly in his harness, waiting for "instructions". Dan went wild. He seemed impossible to control. Much too excited. Much too nervous. After some period of time trying to calm the big horse, my Dad gave up and we led Dan back to the place where we had bought him. The horse salesman threw a harness on Dan, hitched him to a one-horse cultivator, and proceeded to cultivate a garden patch.

My father was born in 1893. He grew up with horses. He had a deep scar on his right temple, marking the point of impact of a horseshoe where he was kicked in the head - and into a coma - when he was a lad. So serious was the injury that his father proceeded to build a coffin for his son.

But dad recovered and led a very normal life. Horses having been a big part of it.

We led Dan home and turned him to pasture. The next morning, Dan was harnessed again, and again went wild. Once more we returned him to the "used horse lot". Once again the sales person harnessed Dan and proceeded to demonstrate that the big sorrel was well trained and gentle as a kitten. Dan in tow, we returned home once more.

The next morning, Dad was sure he had the answer to Dan's behavior. For some reason this horse had to be "warmed up". Can you imagine an athlete who, before taking to the gridiron, runs several laps around the field, then engages in a series of physical exercises? Anyway, Dad hitched the horses to a wagon and took them for a trot down the road. In about a mile or so, we reached a wide spot, turned the team and wagon around and returned home. Dan, then hitched to the cultivator, performed splendidly.

Duke, on the other hand, seemed to have a human-like understanding of what had to be done. Among other crops, we had a large patch of watermelons. One day I set out to cultivate the patch with Duke pulling a little one-horse cultivator. He set out like he intended to finish the job before lunch... much too fast for me to control the implement he was pulling. I reined him to a stop and walked around to his head. There, far from any other human observation, I took hold of his bridle and explained the problem. Yes, young farm boys do things like talking to horses.

When I again took my position behind the implement and clucked for Duke to move out, he just leaned forward into his collar, ever so slowly tightening the traces that would pull the cultivator. "C'mon, Duke, let's go", I encouraged. Duke took one step, then another, and proceeded to pull the cultivator carefully forward. We continued slowly through the patch, ripping up the soil and removing weeds between the watermelon "hills".

Once I had to go somewhere on the farm and decided to ride Duke. We had no saddle, so I mounted him bareback. Some breeds of riding horses can glide along in a smooth and even gait. Duke was not one of those horses. After plodding along in a slow walk for some distance, I encouraged the big horse to hurry. He launched into his awkward, bouncing gate. Astraddle his wide back, my legs spread far apart, I bounced about a foot into the air and landed hard on his back. The landing mashed my testicles and I experienced pain I had never known. Trying to grasp myself where it hurt, I fell from Duke's back landing in a fetal position in the dirt.

I don't recall how long it took for the pain to become bearable, but when it did, I was aware that I was being pushed about. It was Duke. He continued to nuzzle me until I took hold of his reins and staggered to my feet. When I fell, Duke had stopped running, turned around and returned as though to be sure I was okay.

There has never been a grazing animal that did not think the grass was greener on the other side of the fence. One time Duke arrived at that conclusion and stepped one front leg across an old barbed wire fence. The wire was loose and springy and when Duke tried to withdraw that front leg, he found that he could not. The wire was caught behind his ankle. It was necessary for him to lean forward until his leg was free, then raise his hoof high above the sagging wire, and back himself into his own pasture. Instead, he swung his leg back and forth, the barbs on the fence wire cutting into the back of his ankle. When I found him, blood was spurting from the wound.

I freed Duke's leg and led him to the barn. I was alone on the farm that day, but remembered having been told that tea leaves would help blood to clot. Securing Duke in his stall, I ran to the house and grabbed mother's supply of tea leaves. Returning to the barn I sat on the floor next to Duke's front leg and held a handful of dry tea leaves tightly against the wound.

Eventually it did stop bleeding. Whether or not the tea helped or hurt, I'll never know, but Duke healed and seemingly suffered no long term consequences.

Dad built a wagon on an old automobile chassis, retaining the rubber tires. That wagon rode like a cloud behind Duke and Dan, and I made some extra money hauling things for nearby farmers.

I loved those big horses. Today, some sixty-plus years later, I can no longer remember what happened to Duke and Dan. My father probably sold the horses. Surely they are both long since dead now, and while I do not believe in an after life for horses, it is pleasant to imagine them somewhere, grazing knee-deep in clover with not a barbed wire fence in sight.