Falstaff swished his tail and snorted towards the horse in the next stall. “They runnin’ you today, Romeo?”
Romeo lowered his head, turned his long nose with its white star design toward his stablemate. “Oh, so you heard.”
Falstaff neighed with laughter. “Bad luck, that is.”
“Yep. I pulled Fat Boy as my jock. My back hurts already. Ironic, because I heard my owner say if I get one more win, I’m going out to stud.”
“Yee-haw! Stud farm!” Falstaff, in his excitement, backed up in his stall and step-kicked his back feet. “Lucky bastard! I’m getting a boner just thinking about it.”
“But if I don’t hit this one, it’s another two months on the circuit, at least.”
“I’m pulling for you, Romeo. I’ll keep my hooves crossed. Maybe Fat Boy’s been in touch with Jenny Craig.”
Romeo did feel lucky that day. Fat Boy was still fat, but the track was dry and smooth. He could feel the power in his legs, even with the extra weight, and knewhe had a chance. As he headed down the stretch, he sensed it, that winning feeling, and as he passed the other horses he knew he would soon be fulfilling the promise of his name, chasing a bevy of mares around green pastures.
Prancing proudly and snorting with excitement in the winner’s circle, Romeo angled his head back and showed his teeth as everyone caressed him and congratulated Fat Boy on their win.
The next day he nodded his goodbyes from the trailer, and Falstaff hollered after him, “Knock one up for me, bro!”
Arriving at his destination, Romeo felt something wasn’t right. He lifted his nose to the breeze and didn’t smell any mares, only other stallions. As they unloaded him from the trailer and walked him toward his new home, he passed a sign: Woodruff Quarter Horses — Artificial Insemination Facility. He wondered what the words meant.
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