when it rains

by Christie Goodman

I was there the day Ella was born. I sat with her sister, Lucy, while their mom did the hard work of bringing a child into this world. I had been there for her sister’s birth as well. I didn’t have kids of my own, and these children filled a hole in my life. I loved them with all that I was.

As Lucy and Ella grew, they loved coming up to my ranch, about an hour from the town where they lived. Their favorite thing to do was ride my horses.

As they reached their teenaged years, Lucy would come up when she could and ride. She was fearless. But Ella moved her world to get to the ranch. She was horse crazy and would give up anything else for the chance to go riding with me. When this lasted two years and showed no signs of slowing down, I decided it was time to get her a horse. Ella was fourteen years old.

Dave and I were driving to Kentucky that spring to buy a stallion for my breeding business. Near the ranch, we were buying the stallion from was a horse rescue that got in a lot of retired racehorses and others that needed homes. We started talking to them about buying a horse for Ella. In the end, we chose a big, brown mare with long legs and high energy. We brought her home, and Ella came right up to meet her.

Ella was a little intimidated by this high energy horse at first but loved her right off the bat. She spent the horse’s first weekend leading it around the ranch, working on groundwork and trying to pick a name. Then, Ella went home with plans to return the following weekend and ride.

That week, the vet was coming up to do routine shots on all my horses, so I had Ella’s in the round pen, as well, for easy access. The day was a bit hot, so I brought her a large bucket of water. I reached to take her halter off when she leaned in for a drink and, bringing her head up, caught her halter in the handle of the bucket. I don’t know how she did it, but the bucket was suddenly—and soundly—affixed to her halter. She lifted her head, and the bucket came with it.

She freaked out. Horses are prey animals, and when their fear response is triggered, they can think of nothing else except to run. Convinced a predator had her by the head, she ran, but she couldn’t get away from it. Driven to madness by fear, she threw herself at the metal panels that constructed my round pen and broke right through.

She managed to race around the yard, trying to get away from the bucket on her head, running from one end of the ranch to the other. Finally, she shook the bucket off. Beginning to calm down, she raced to the pasture my stallion was in and stood as close to him as she could. Her sides heaved; she was in shock. Seeing her standing there, across the lawn, I raced to catch up with her. It took a moment to make sense of what I saw. Dave had come out on our upper deck, drawn by all the noise. He shouted to me, “Christie! Do you see it? Do you see it?” I didn’t want to see it, but I had. It was too horrible to be real.

Her right front leg dangled free, hanging on only by a scrap of hide; it had been sliced right off by the metal panel she had broken through. I couldn’t breathe. The whole world swam. I stood still, trying to make what I saw not be true. But it was.

The vet arrived minutes later, but there was nothing he could do. The joint was cut in half and would never heal. She had to be put down, and we had to do it before she came out of shock and realized how much pain she was in. I held her head, and Dave held me while the vet gave her the shot. That night I had to call Ella and tell her that her horse was dead.

We immediately began looking for another horse for Ella. She was heartbroken, and we wanted to move on this as quickly as we could. We found a beautiful red and white paint that Ella named Rain for sale not far from our ranch, and she was perfect. She loved to run, just as Ella did, but she wasn’t as big, or intimidating, as a thoroughbred racehorse. We brought her home, and Ella began riding her that summer.

Ella rode every chance she could get. Ella was tall and muscular from hours playing soccer, hiking and running track. Her hair was long and fell to her waist. She and I would go out together and inevitably she would turn to me at some point during every ride, glowing, and shout, “This is the best day of my life!”

Rain and she bonded hard. They were together every chance they got. Summer drew to a close, and the pastures were the blond color of old wheat. The grasses were dead. Forest fires raced across the country, but the smoke hadn’t hit us yet, as it usually did that time of year. We still had blue skies and clear days.

I rode Lakota for the first time, a little red mare I had bought. I took her on a short trail around the ranch, stepping out on the road as we neared the end of the trail, coming close to the pasture the rest of the horses were in. As was my habit, I glanced over all the horses as I passed them, and my eyes stuck on Ella’s mare. Something was wrong.

I steered Lakota closer to the edge of the pasture and looked hard at Rain. Something was wrong with her legs. Very wrong.

I turned Lakota and hurried home. My heart was in my throat. I hoped I was wrong. Maybe it had been just a cut or two? Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance?

As soon as I got to the barn, I called for my cousin, Ben, and everyone else who was within shouting distance on the ranch that day. “Ben, I need you to go get Rain and bring her here. I think she is hurt. Maybe badly.” Ben grabbed a lead rope and rushed to the back pasture. I quickly put Lakota away.

Ben came back without Rain. “I don’t think we can move her that far,” he said, “You are right. She is very badly hurt.” I gathered my vet supplies and went to the back pasture where she stood.

All four of her legs were ripped to shreds. In some places, huge hunks of muscle were torn away to reveal the bone underneath. In other places, there were teeth marks and ripped skin and muscle hanging in chunks along her legs. Her flanks were striped with what looked like claw marks on both sides, starting on her back and winding down her hind legs; she was in shock. None of the rest of the horses were hurt. They stood around her in a protective manner, calm and quiet, just watching.

I had never seen injuries like that before. It looked like the kind of damage a mountain lion could do, but I had never heard of a lion grabbing hold of legs in the way this one must have to leave this kind of carnage. They went for the neck, usually. We took careful pictures of every wound and called our vet. The vet agreed. A strange attack, but he didn’t know what else it could be. There was no way Rain was going to survive.

“The muscle ripped away is just too damaged. And in other places there will be dead tissue caused by crushing from the lion’s jaws. If she has any chance of healing from this, which is unlikely, it will be a long and very painful process for her. I think you have to put her down.”

But the vet was out of town and couldn’t come up to the ranch to do what had to be done. “You have a gun?” he asked. “That is the kindest way to do it.”

Still in shock, I tried to figure out how that day could have turned around so suddenly. I got out my .45 caliber handgun, the only gun I owned, and I sent everyone away.

Ben was too upset to help; he had never seen anything like this before, and he had a tender heart for the animals. Besides, I had another niece, Jessica, at the ranch that day and wanted Ben to go to her and make sure she was okay. She knew what was going to happen and was upset about it, as we all were. My friend Aud said she would help dispose of the body, but she couldn’t be there for the kill. Dave said the same. Unless I really needed him, he asked not to watch the death. He would take care of the body after I was done.

I knew it had to be me with the gun. That was my job. The crux of my job. I was responsible for the health and safety, for the wellbeing, of all the animals in my care. There was no time when that was more important than when one of them needed a quick death to end their suffering. I had done this once before with an old mare who had stopped responding to arthritis treatment, stopped eating and drinking, and was clearly ready to go. Then the mare had told me, clearly, that it was time. I pulled the trigger, and the deed was done.

As I made my way to the back pasture, I saw Rain just standing there, in shock, in a trance, unable to hobble even a few feet, waiting. She wasn’t old. She looked like herself, strong and fast and full of fire, except for those legs and the long claw marks that tore down her back. She stood by the creek, next to the fence and near the road. Dave hugged me and walked 50 feet away, waiting for me around the corner, behind some trees. Ben handed me a lead rope and halter, saying, “I guess you probably don’t even need these. It’s not like she can move anywhere.” I considered leaving them off but finally put them on just to have something more to do. I wasn’t ready for the gun yet.

There we were, Rain and I, alone, and a job left to do.

I was in shock. I couldn’t think straight. When I had done this before with my old mare, I had studied carefully how to hold the gun, how to make the shot. She had dropped instantly before she even knew anything was wrong. But I couldn’t remember what I had learned all those years ago. I looked at Rain and knew I couldn’t shoot her, but I also knew I had to.

I lifted the gun to her temple. my mind screaming at me that I couldn’t do it. I pulled the trigger. The shot rang out all across the ranch, but Rain didn’t fall. Blood sprayed from the wound in her head, like a fire hydrant, soaking my face and chest in deep, hot red. Rain began racing around and around me in a panicked, charging run, only the lead rope keeping her from running away from me all together.

I wanted to run. I wanted to cry, to shout, to hide. I lifted the gun and shot her again. Again, in the side of the head. And again, she didn’t fall.

Now, two holes were spurting blood. I dripped from head to foot, my hair plastered to my head, sticky and red. A metallic tang rang in my mouth. She continued to race in a panic around me as I held her in place, just barely, with the rope and halter that she wore.

Suddenly, I remembered, realizing what I had done wrong. You had to shoot a horse through the center of the forehead. The sides didn’t work. Oh God, I would have to shoot her again.

I refused. I wouldn’t do it, look that poor girl in the eyes and bring my gun to face her straight on. I couldn’t. But, somehow, I forced myself to lift the gun into position as she ran, and I shot again.

This time, she fell, instantly dead.

I stared at her from beneath the warm blanket of red that tackily covered me from head to foot and everywhere in between. My hands shaking, I stumbled away from her, still holding the gun, and walked to where Dave stood.

“It didn’t work,” I confessed, my voice barely recognizable, “She didn’t die.”

“I know,” he said, holding my gaze. “I know.”

He reached for the gun I still barely knew I held, and I dropped it into his hands. I veered off the road and stepped into the creek. I lowered my body until all of me was covered by the frigid glacier melt water that flowed through our land. I didn’t notice the cold. I shook so hard I couldn’t see. I just knelt in that creek and dunked myself over and over, all the way under the water, using my hands to get the congealing blood out of my hair, clothes, and skin. Even after washed clean, I just sat in the creek, water rushing around my shoulders, and stared up at Dave.

“She didn’t die,” I said again. “She didn’t die, and I had to shoot her again.”

“I know,” he repeated and held out his hand to me. I stumbled out of the frigid water, free of blood, and fell, dripping into his arms. I sobbed my heart out, and he held me until I was done.

I had to call Ella that night and tell her that her horse had died—again. Ella sobbed. She sobbed for days. We sobbed together. There was nothing else we could do.

I haven’t bought Ella another horse after Rain. I can’t do it. At first, she wasn’t ready. Now, she is sixteen and hasn’t ridden since Rain died. She has just started to talk about it again as something she might want to do. But I don’t know what horse she would ride. I only have one riding horse, and she doesn’t let anyone but me on her back. So, when Ella asks about it, I punt, put it off, and change the subject. It’s ridiculous to think that something like this would happen again, to a horse we bought Ella, for a third time. My mind tells me that, but my heart doesn’t believe it. So, I refuse to think of how meaningful it was for me, all those years, riding with Ella, sharing my passion with her. I refuse to think about it, so I avert my eyes, stammer a moment, and change the subject.

Photo of Christie Goodman

BIO: Christie Goodman’s first book Meanwhile, I Keep Dancing came out November of 2024. She has an MFA in English and am now a full time writer.