Short Story / How to Move a Dead Horse

Batting and poking in the dark at the alarm clock, Sam can’t get it to stop buzzing. Tearing his eyes open, he sees the time blaring back at him in red: 12:42, not time for the alarm. The buzzing morphs into the ring of the telephone; he grabs it from the cradle.

“Mmm… Hullo?”

“Sam? Sam it’s me.” I said into the receiver.

“Ben? It’s nearly one in the morning.” I could picture Sam eyeing the illuminated numbers on his alarm clock and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry. I just got a call from George…” Sam interrupted before I could finish.

“George, who? What the hell is the matter with you people; it’s ONE in the MORNING!”

“George Tate, up the hill,” I rolled my eyes. “Anyways, he needs us to go move his horse. He…”

“Move his what? I’m dreaming—am I dreaming? You woke me up in the middle of the night to move a horse? Slap it on the ass and holler ‘giddy up,’” Sam said. He wasn’t happy, but I could tell he was at least waking up.

“Listen, Sam. George’s kid’s horse is dead, just fell over dead I guess, he needs us to move it before his kids get up in the morning. I thought we could use your truck.” I said.

“My truck? God Ben, now I wish I were dreaming. Give me a few minutes, I’ll pick you up.” Sam said. He hung up before I could say anything else.

The heater hummed. It was twenty-something degrees outside and the heater was working as hard as it could to heat the cab of Sam’s pickup. The studded tires made rhythm on the snow-packed road. We were armed with rope, a knife, gloves, and not much more. Sam scowled ahead. He wasn’t really awake yet, so I stared ahead too.

“My God, it’s dead.” Said Sam. He was staring down at the bloated horse. It was lying on its side in the snow and all four legs stuck straight out like branches.

“I told you it was dead.” I said.

“I know, but it’s pretty damn dead.” Sam said.

I gave a tentative poke at one of the legs with the toe of my boot. It was solid. I looked at Sam; he looked just as puzzled about how to move the horse as I was.

“So… How we gonna move it?” I asked Sam. He shrugged, still staring down at the horse. I wondered if burying it in the snow until spring was an option. I dismissed the thought though; I could see the Tate kid running up to the house screaming his head off at the first thaw. We had to get it off of the property.

“It’ll never fit in my truck with it’s legs all sticking out like that, and besides, how the hell we get it up in the bed anyhow? We’re gonna have to pull it or something.” Sam said. I nodded my agreement, and I grabbed the rope and the knife out of the truck.

“We’ll tie the rope around the shoulders and under the front legs. We’ll just pull him outa’ here.” Sam said. I handed him an end of the rope, and kept the other end and the knife.

“Did George wake you too, or were you still up?” Sam asked.

“I was still up, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow, actually, I guess that would be later today; and I didn’t start it ‘til last night, well, not started exactly.” I said, picturing the blank document on my computer monitor at home.

We were trying to push the horse on top of a length of the rope without much success.

“Here, push.” I said. I bent to wrestle the rope under the horse. Sam pushed the horse, but instead of lifting, the stiff horse just sort of slid, pushing the rope in front of it.

“Shit, stop pushing.” I said. We were covered in dirty snow and I felt like I was going to puke.

“What’s the paper on?” Sam asked. I grunted with the effort of trying to lodge the rope under the horse’s back.

“It’s an informative paper. I have to explain how to do something.” I said. Sam snorted laughter.

“Well, here you go, write about how to move a dead horse.” He said. I wasn’t amused. We finally had the rope positioned under the back and Sam wrapped the rope around each leg a few times before tying the rope together encircling the horse.

“You are lucky you dropped out, you aren’t missing much.” I said. Sam laughed again and straightened to look at me.

“Yeah, if you call flipping burgers to pay my parents rent ‘lucky,’ then sure, I’m walking around with a damn leprechaun in my pocket.”

“Your parents? They’re charging you rent?” I said.

“Yeah, two hundred for the room, plus my phone line and I buy my own grub.”

“Two hundred, shit,” I said.

“Well, they figure if I’m not in college I have to move out or pay rent, and think about it, I’d never find my own place for two hundred,” Sam said.

“I guess,” I said.

“Your mom and my mom are friends; you’d better stay in school!” Sam said. We both laughed then.

“Well, that’s that.” I said. We looked at the horse tied to the back of the truck.

“Drive steady,” I said. “I’ll ride in the bed and see that the rope holds.”
Sam patted the horse and walked to the cab of the truck. He slammed the door and fired up the engine. The tires skidded in the packed snow for a few seconds and then caught. I bumped around on the wheel well in the bed of the truck and watched the dead horse slipping and twisting behind the truck. I was throwing around a title for my paper that was due less than six hours: “How to Move a Dead Horse.” Maybe.

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