My father was born on another planet—far, far away on the other end of the galaxy. There, folks don't get bogged down with common sense--they just go after what they want and worry about everything the rest of us might consider "important" when they cross that particular bridge. I’ve never met his people. Nor do I have immediate plans.
The horse was a beauty--a palomino. Not a pony either but a full-grown horsey. He didn't come with a saddle but he had a harness and bit with rope attached for reins.
"Oh Daddy! I love him!" exclaimed my clueless sister. "What's his name?"
"I didn't ask," said our Dad while tying the newest member of our family to a small Maple tree in the backyard. "Guess we can call him whatever we want." But of course Dad, I thought to myself. It's a good thing you remember our names.
I was obviously the only one who thought it weird that we now had a horse tied to a tree in our backyard. That was until the very next morning when the neighbors two streets over got to meet him. At first, my sister and I thought the horse had gotten loose, after all my Dad had only flung a rope around the tree a few times and not very diligently. When the first call came in we ran outside and sure enough the horse was gone.
"Daddy!" my sister yelled. We could hear his voice behind us. "Where are you?" we called out.
"I'm feeding the chickens." He was behind the garage in a fenced off area that was a makeshift home for the hens.
"Marshmallow is gone!" cried my sister. Oh yeah, she named it Marshmallow which I thought was so dumb. I had suggested the name Pally, short for Palomino but my sister had pooh-poohed it saying, "I'll bet every Palomino is called Pally." Uh, right--"that's because it's a good name dufus.”
My Dad looked completely indifferent to the fact that people were calling our house to tell us they just saw our horse galloping past their window. "He's okay,” our father replied nonchalantly. “I just let him loose for a little while so he could stretch his legs." I looked at my sister and she at me, both of our heads tilting to the side in unison.
"Daddy?" I spoke first, being the oldest. "I don't think it was wise to do that. A car could hit him.”
He looked at me and then back at the chickens pecking at his feet. “Hmm, you know? You might have a good point there,” he said. I hope the spaceship returns for you soon Dad, you must miss your people an awful lot.
He put down the pail of chicken feed—it took all of two seconds for the hungry hens to knock it over and begin their binge eating—and walked down the driveway. “You girls go inside and I’ll go get Marshmallow.”
My sister and I went in the house and waited—our arms resting on the back of the sofa watching out the big picture window. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello dear, this is Mrs. Whitaker over on Highland Street,” said a woman’s voice, “I think you’re father might need some help.”
“What happened? Is he alright?” I nervously asked.
“Well, he seems to be alright,” She hesitated. “But I don’t think he’s ever going to catch that horse with his bare hands. They’ve already run past my house a dozen times.”
I don’t know why, but I apologized to Mrs. Whitaker. Then I went over to my sister and apologized to her for calling her a dufus.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, peering down the street. “Apparently it’s genetic.”
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Copyright 2010 by Janet Cipolli. All Rights Reserved.
