I always remember this story fron one of the Chicken Soup for the horse lovers Soul book.
The Racking Horse
The first time Bart told me about his horse Dude, I knew their bond had been something special. But I never suspected that Dude would deliver a wonderful gift to me.
Growing up on a 100-year-old family farm in Tennessee, Bart loved all animals. But Dude, the chestnut-colored horse that Bart received when he turned nine, became his favorite. Years later when Bart’s father sold Dude, Bart grieved in secret.
Even before I met and married Bart, I knew all about grieving in secret, too. Because of my dad’s job, our family relocated every year. Deep inside, I wished we could stay in one place where I could develop lasting friendships. But I never said anything to my parents. I didn’t want to hurt them. Yet sometimes I wondered if even God could keep track of us the way we moved from place to place.
One summer evening in 1987, as Bart and I glided on our front-porch swing, my husband suddenly blurted out, “Did I ever tell you that Dude won the World Racking Horse Championship?”
“Rocking horse championship?” I asked.
“Racking,” Bart corrected, smiling gently. “It’s a kind of dancing that horses do. Takes lots of training. You use four reins to guide the horse. It’s pretty hard.” Bart gazed at the pasture.
“Dude was the greatest racking horse ever.”
“Then why’d you let your dad sell him?” I probed.
“I didn’t know he was even thinking about it,” Bart explained. “When I was seventeen, I started a short construction job down in Florida. I guess Dad figured I wouldn’t be riding anymore, so he sold Dude without even asking me. Running a horse farm means you buy and sell horses all the time, and that’s what Dad did.
“I’ve always wondered if that horse missed me as much as I’ve missed him. I’ve never had the heart to try to find him. I couldn’t stand knowing if something bad . . .” Bart’s voice trailed off.
After that, few nights passed without Bart mentioning Dude. My heart ached for him. I didn’t know what to do. Then one afternoon while I walked through the pasture, a strange thought came to me. In my heart, a quiet voice said, “Lori, find Dude for Bart.”
How absurd! I thought. I knew nothing about horses, certainly not how to find and buy one.
That was Bart’s department.
The harder I tried to dismiss the thought, the stronger it grew. I did not dare mention it to anyone except God. Each day I asked him to guide me.
On a Saturday morning three weeks after the first “find Dude” notion, a new meter reader, Mr. Parker, stopped by while I was working in the garden. We struck up a friendly conversation. When he mentioned he’d once bought a horse from Bart’s dad, I interrupted.
“You remember the horse’s name?” I asked.
“Sure do,” Mr. Parker said. “Dude. Paid $2,500 for him.”
I wiped the dirt from my hands and jumped up, barely catching my breath.
“Do you know what happened to him?” I asked.
“Yep. I sold him for a good profit.”
“Where’s Dude now?” I asked. “I need to find him.”
“That’d be impossible,” Mr. Parker explained.
“I sold that horse years ago. He might even be dead by now.”
“But could you . . . would you . . . be willing to try to help me find him?” After I explained the situation, Mr. Parker stared at me for several seconds. Finally, he agreed to join the search for Dude, promising not to say anything to Bart.
Each Friday for almost a year, I phoned Mr. Parker to see if his sleuthing had turned up anything. Each week his answer was the same:
“Sorry, nothing yet.”
One Friday I called Mr. Parker with another idea. “Could you at least find one of Dude’s babies for me?”
“Don’t think so,” he chuckled. “Dude was a gelding.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll take a gelding baby.”
“You really do need help.” Mr. Parker explained that geldings are unable to reproduce. Then he seemed to double his efforts to help. Several weeks later, he phoned me on a Monday.
“I found him,” he shouted. “I found Dude!”
“Where?” I said, wanting to jump through the phone.
“On a farm in Georgia,” Mr. Parker said. “A family bought Dude for their teenage son. But they can’t do anything with the horse. In fact, they think Dude’s crazy. Maybe dangerous. Bet you could get him back real easy.”
Mr. Parker was right. I called the family in Rising Fawn, Georgia, and made arrangements to buy Dude for $300. I struggled to keep my secret until the weekend. On Friday, I met Bart at the front door after work.
“Will you go for a ride with me?” I asked in my most persuasive voice. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Honey,” Bart protested, “I’m tired.”
“Please, Bart. I’ve packed a picnic supper. It’ll be worth the ride, I promise.”
Bart got into the Jeep. As I drove, my heart beat so fast that I thought it would burst as I chatted about family matters.
“Where are we going?” Bart asked after thirty minutes.
“Just a bit farther,” I said.
Bart sighed. “Honey, I love you. But I can’t believe I let you drag me off.”
I didn’t defend myself. I’d waited too long to ruin things now. However, by the time I steered off the main highway onto a gravel road, Bart was so annoyed that he wasn’t speaking to me. When I turned from the gravel road to a dirt trail, Bart glared.
“We’re here,” I said, stopping in front of the third fence post.
“Here where? Lori, have you lost your mind?” Bart barked.
“Stop yelling,” I said. “Whistle.”
“What?” Bart shouted.
“Whistle,” I repeated. “Like you used to . . . for Dude. Just whistle. You’ll understand in a minute.”
“Well . . . I. . . . This is crazy,” Bart sputtered as he got out of the Jeep.
To humor me, Bart whistled. Nothing happened.
“Oh, God,” I whispered. “Don’t let this be a mistake.”
“Do it again,” I prodded.
Bart whistled once more, and we heard a sound in the distance. What was it? I could barely breathe.
Bart whistled again. Suddenly over the horizon, a horse came at a gallop. Before I could speak, Bart leaped over the fence.
“Dude!” he yelled, running toward his beloved friend. I watched the blurs of horse and husband meet as if they were performing in one of those slow-motion reunion scenes on television. Bart hopped up on his pal, stroking his mane and patting his neck.
Immediately, a sandy-haired, tobacco-chewing teenage boy and his huffing parents crested the hill.
“Mister, what are you doing?” the boy yelled.
“That horse is crazy. Can’t nobody do nothing with him.”
“No,” Bart boomed. “He’s not crazy. He’s Dude.”
To everyone’s amazement, at Bart’s soft command to the unbridled horse, Dude threw his head high and began racking. As the horse pranced through the pasture, no one spoke. When Dude finished dancing for joy, Bart slid off him.
“I want Dude home,” he said.
“I know,” I replied with tears in my eyes. “All the arrangements have been made. We can come back and get him.”
“Nope,” Bart insisted. “He’s coming home tonight.”
I phoned my in-laws and soon they arrived with a horse trailer. We paid for Dude and headed home.
Bart spent the night in the barn. I knew he and Dude had a lot of catching up to do. As I looked out of the bedroom window, the moon cast a warm glow over the farm. I smiled, knowing that my husband and I now had a wonderful story to tell our future children and grandchildren.
“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered. Then the truth hit me. I’d searched longer for Dude than I’d ever lived in one place. God had used the process of finding my husband’s beloved horse to renew my trust in the friend who sticks closer than a brother.
“Thank you, Lord,” I whispered again as I fell asleep. “Thank you for never losing track of Dude—or me.
