Alfred Wight in Equestria
Chapter One: If Only They Could… Talk?
It all started early one morning in February, in 1966.
I was back to working one night in two, as one of our assistants had left the practice. Needless to say, at the ripe old age of forty-nine it was a hard adjustment to make. However, the practice at 23 Kirkgate still had a working kitchen, which on mornings like this was a veritable godsend.
It wasn’t uncommon for me, upon returning from some early morning procedure, to go by the store and pick up a few breakfast items to cook for a morning repast. While the Yorkshire farmer was all generosity, especially upon a job that their critical eye deemed well done, it wasn’t always late enough to rely on their generous nature, nor was it early enough to bother driving home and going back to bed for a few extra minute’s slumber. As such, I picked up the habit of going to the store as soon as it opened, and picking up some sausages, eggs, and day old bread for toast to make a handy breakfast sandwich suitable for men of all situation and stations.
It also wasn’t uncommon in that time for Donald, my business associate and longtime friend, to come bounding into the room that used to be our dining room back in the days when he, I, and at times his brother, Brian, used the premises as not only our business, but our dwelling as well.
“Well, what do you think, Alf? Good morning for some work? I see by your meal here that you passed up on Joan’s beautiful spread again this morning. What will she think of that?” Donald was ever the chipper one of the group in the mornings. He had also partaken of my lovely wife Joan’s meals with much relish, so he knew very well what I was missing. And on a Monday, to boot.
“Morning, Donald, you’ve made me out, I’m afraid. Had a bit of a stitching job on a heifer at Sutton’s place up near Swainby this morning. Too early for breakfast, too late for sleep. I figured I’d come in here and get some work done.” I neglected to tell Donald that I did, in fact, slip in a cat-nap at the table before he came in.
“Ah, that’s always good. I do appreciate industry around these parts, it’s woefully lacking at times. Not that I’m casting a disparaging eye anywhere, but it was quite a disappointment for Allenby to leave. I’m also sorry you find it necessary to take up the slack.”
“Well,” said I, “you’ll have that, I suppose. Large animal work isn’t for everyone, and it’s better for him to move on now, before he turns sour on the whole prospect of veterinary surgery.”
“Quite right, Alf, quite right. But still, it does put us in a pinch. Longer hours for everyone, I’m afraid.”
“Actually it could be a blessing in disguise. Thinking over the finances, we’ll be better off in the long run, I think. It will be just like what the practice was back when we started.” I couldn’t help but feel a bit selfish in that last statement. I had just had my life savings reduced from over 800 pounds to twenty. I felt the need for a good measure of fastidiousness.
“That’s good, Alfred, always look on the bright side.” Donald probably had less of a head for finance than I did. When we started back in the forties, all our cash and checks in went into a beer stein over the mantelpiece. We would just take what we needed for expenses there. No accounting, whatsoever. Those days were long gone, so one of us had to keep an eye on the larder, as it were.
“At any rate,” Donald continued, “We’re looking at a light day on the rounds today, but mark my words, this lollygagging ends in a month. Things will really pick up, then.” I nodded, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Even now, mid-March to late April was our time wholly dedicated to the lamb. Lambing season was always the most hectic time for us, for in addition to our regular rounds, the normally hardy ewes in the dales would be churning out an impressive amount of mal presentations, prolapses, and tangled up twins and triplets. While it was tough work, the satisfaction upon completing a job that the farmer couldn’t perform was immense.
It was then that Donald and I received one of the most important calls of our lives.
Donald picked up the receiver. “Yes, good morning... What? What?” He promptly hung up the phone. “Must have been a prank. Someone claiming to be a Princess? Celestia? What rot.” Phone pranks were common so very early in the morning. It must have been Donald’s brother, Brian, who perhaps put one of his brood up to it. The apple and the tree.
The phone immediately rang again. Donald was not a patient man, especially when it came to repeat performances of a joke that he did not find altogether humorous in the first place.
“Now listen here, whoever you are, I don’t care if you’re the bloody Archbish—Oh.” Donald was stopped and held transfixed next to the phone, staring up the stairwell that ran up to the heights of the house. I, myself, was dumbfounded as a celestial light beamed down from the landing above. I heard a clop-clopping of hooves from above, sounding upon the wood floor.
And then we saw her.
Now, I am not the keen judge of horseflesh that Donald is. As long as I’ve known him, he has kept a hunter for his own personal use. He is also the most loving horse doctor and equine devotee I have ever known.
Even I could tell that the specimen coming down the stairs put the primest examples of equine perfection that I or Donald had ever seen to shame.
She was a living poem to beauty and grace. The most alabaster coat I had ever seen covered a long, graceful, swan-like neck, which swept under her body and up to her rear leg. Violet eyes revealed the most amazing, unfathomable intelligence. Multiple hues of pastel colors waved gently, like a flag on a lazy summer day. Emphasizing the swan-like quality, two wings were secured to her back, just behind the withers. A long horn emerged from her mane, adding to the striking appearance. She wore light and gold for raiment, with golden boots that completely covered her hooves up the long pastern to the base of the cannon, as well as a golden breast collar that shone with a luminescence that seemed to come from within. Donald and I were both awe-struck.
“Dr. Sinclair, Dr. Wight,” she addressed us; “I believe we have some important matters to discuss.”