Page 27 of Forget That Guy
Finally, last night, she’d shown signs of being in labor.
So I’d been checking on her on and off since.
Applesauce gave birth a few moments later with a pained whinny.
“There you are, old girl,” I said as she hopped up and turned to examine her baby.
I’d secretly hoped that Applesauce’s offspring would be the same grayish-blue color as her, but her offspring came out a cinnamon brown.
“Boring,” I grumbled to her.
She nudged the horse with her nose.
The baby fell over.
Chuckling, I stood up and stripped off my gloves, turning to survey the woman who was leaning on the stall door, her arms propping up her chin.
“I brought Greta home.” She paused. “And your girls stole my dog.”
I frowned. “Your dog?”
“Froto, the tiny Pomeranian,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I literally think they’re keeping him.”
I blinked. “That’s…”
Just another damn thing that I don’t want to have to add to my fucking list of things to do every morning.
No offense, because the dog was fuckin’ cute as hell, but I didn’t want to have to feed him a bottle every couple of hours. And I didn’t want that dog to die on my watch.
“I won’t let them keep him,” she murmured. “Greta is still in the truck, though. I can’t get her out. Plus, she didn’t really look like she was all that excited to get up. The seat in the back of the work truck is pretty comfy.”
I nodded, standing up straight and stretching my back out.
I wished I could go back to a time when my back didn’t hurt constantly. Or when I thought my back hurt when in reality it felt like angels and rainbows compared to now.
I’d be forty this year, and I felt every single one of those fuckin’ years.
Giving one last look at Applesauce and her new foal, I headed out of the barn and toward the truck.
Greta’s head popped up when she heard me coming.
“Hey there, girl,” I said as I reached my arms underneath her heavy body.
Again, my back smarted, but I easily lifted her and carried her back into the barn.
I’d take her into the house, but she’d fucking hate it.
We’d tried to get her in there multiple times throughout the years, and she always barked and bayed at the door until she was set free.
The barn was her home.
Sadly, her best buddy wouldn’t be in that home with her anymore.
“Where did it happen?” Holly asked as she stayed even with my long-legged strides.
“In the front pasture right there,” I said. “Right where the remaining calves were brought in yesterday after the first attack.”
“Did Greta and your other dog get any of them?” she asked.
