Just like his big brother, Carlo kept his hand more or less steady and firm. But when Frey’s teeth descended, Carlo took a step back, and the apple dropped to the ground. Frances scurried forward and picked it up, then placed it back onto Carlo’s hand.
“Try again, Carlo. You can do I,” Frances encouraged.
Carlo bravely held the treat balanced in his hand the second time, and Frey took the whole apple in his mouth, something he didn’t usually do. When I fed Frey apples, he sliced and diced with his rather large teeth, managing to slobber all over me as he enjoyed the treat. But not with little Carlo. Frey was so neat and quiet about the process, one would think he was an old horse, practically ready to be put out into the pasture for retirement.
Frey was such a good boy. I told him so several times, feeling as proud of him as if he really was my baby. I complimented his good manners, then hugged his neck. Frey’s ears did a flipflop as he listened to my voice. Then he nickered softly and having finished crunching and munching the apple, he butted my chest, hopeful for more yummies. I think he could smell the carrots in my pocket.
Mrs. Penn and Officer Krugle had stood a short distance away, watching the children’s interactions with Frey. Since both boys had shared their treat, backed away, and were suddenly involved in a fierce game of tag where Frances was running slowly enough so that Carlo could catch him, I expected some wise crack from the officer about how I was always talking to my horse, but the man said nothing.
The man’s eyes were studying the stallion, no doubt noting the clean lines of Frey’s carriage and his dished face, denoting the fact that Frey must have had a sire with hot blood, even though that supposedly wasn’t true. (Unless the farmer had sneaked his mare into an Arabian stud’s pen when no one was looking. Would Mr. Harrington have done that? Sure, if he thought he could get away with it.)
I wondered, not for the first time, why Officer Krugel didn’t need to be at the police office or out on call. He’d been with us, practically non-stop, since he’d picked up the boys and me from their parents’ house. Surely we three (well, four, if you added Frey) didn’t rank that high for the best use of the man’s time. But maybe Tinkle Town had a low crime rate, and the man usually spent most of his time waiting around in the station, practically twiddling his thumbs.
I refilled Frey’s water basin and watched as he quickly drained it. Normally, when Frey wasn’t thirsty, he splashed in the water, playing with its spray, but he was a serious drinker at the moment. No time for such wasteful practices.
As I refilled the basin again, I thought about an even bigger problem. Boredom. A stallion with nothing to do would often make trouble, gnawing on wood, tormenting the lawn furniture, or working on the gate lock in case he could make an escape. To prevent such mischief, I’d need to provide something for Frey’s entertainment — and quickly.
My mind recalled a couple of flat balls I’d seen in one of the attic boxes. If I could find a ball pump, one of the balls could go to the boys, but if I kept the other ball in its flattened state, Frey would have something to toss up and flip about with his teeth. He’d love that.