She bolted when a branch cracked, shied at a candy wrapper, bucked at the breeze. “She looks wild again,” Lizzy said, safe on the other side of the fence. Lizzy was right. The mare’s wide-eyed stare was back. I was grateful Wild Thing’s fears didn’t include me. But she didn’t trust me enough to believe I’d keep her safe either. I asked Lizzy to bring me the empty feed sack, which I folded into a square the size of my hand. Beginning on her neck, I rubbed her all over with the gunnysack. I felt her sway when I got to her favorite spots—her withers, jowl, low on her neck. When I finished, I opened the sack a fold and did it all over again, repeating the process until I was stroking her with the open bag. “Next week, Lizzy,” I said, “we’ll soak the sack in water and do this again. Then if there’s ever a barn fire, she’ll let herself be saved with a wet blindfold.” I rested the sack on her back like a saddle blanket. “She doesn’t mind pressure on her back.
