The Paws of Fate

Around 9:30 a.m. she woke to a familiar pungent burning odor that wafted into her nostrils and triggered her recognition of it before she even opened her eyes. Most people would have leapt out of bed to see if there was a fire in the house. Not Morgan. Morgan loved the scent, probably more because of what it was than the way it smelled.

She had left her bedroom window open the night before, as she loved the advent of fall, even if it did get chilly by the middle of the night. “October Country,” she called it. She also loved being able to hear the soft snorts and sometimes even the galloping hooves of the horses in the pastures across the street. Magical creatures they were. And what a bonus this morning - to be awakened by the scent of the farrier hot shoeing a horse.

As she slowly stretched and sat up in bed at what was approaching mid-morning, Morgan supposed this must be how it would feel to be a lady of leisure, for whom money was not a concern. Even though her financial situation was precarious to say the least, Morgan was somewhat proud of herself. She had been intentional about trying not to let the anxiety of being “between jobs” interfere with the joy she felt about getting to live her perfect life with horses unencumbered by work— albeit temporarily and inadvertently.

Strange that it wasn’t until now, at age 38, that Morgan felt she was getting to live a life that was not just an afterthought to work. If only she could figure out how to make this lifestyle permanent. At the moment, despite her ongoing and extensive job search, she was living dangerously and only staying financially afloat by dipping into her small IRA, which meant penalties and taxes. Surprisingly, she felt a curious sense of peace, perhaps due to her genuine belief that all was in some kind of divine order. She believed—or at least hoped—that fate would light the next step for her toward a solution.  

She pondered whether it was fate that had allowed her to find, exactly when she needed it, a rental house directly across the street from a beautiful horse farm. Did she manifest it? Was it God who had engineered the work opportunity that had allowed her to move to Aiken, South Carolina? Or was it the Universe that had lined up all the pieces to facilitate her making this big life change? She wasn’t sure, but she did know she felt like she was living a fairy tale, despite the original job not working out as planned. In fact, she felt fairly certain that even that experience was simply a stepping stone to something better around the corner.

Glancing at her sleeping roommate, Bernie, Morgan considered her options for the day. The first one was to put on her breeches and go ride Oliver, the thick, good-natured, albeit nervous, thoroughbred with more “go” than “whoa,” who belonged to her friend, Jana. Or she could ride Jana’s other horse, Bumpy, who was small, beautiful, jet black, and enthusiasm challenged. She supposed there was a third choice— namely, assuming the position at her computer and resuming what was beginning to feel like an eternal and futile job search. Quickly ruling out the third option, Morgan got out of bed and headed to the kitchen.

As usual, Bernie, her 100-pound Bernese Mountain Dog mix, was close on her heels. He was apparently not as deep of a sleeper as his doggie snoring suggested only moments before. She gave him a scratch as she poured his breakfast into his bowl. She had been told by the shelter that he was a “working breed.” Well, at least one of them was working.

Life with Bernie had certainly been a journey. When Morgan adopted him from the shelter the year before, she knew he was emaciated. She knew he had heartworms. She knew he came in as a stray. She knew he had kennel cough. What she did NOT know was that Bernie suffered from severe separation anxiety. If Morgan left the house and did not have a dog sitter there, Bernie had a true panic attack and tried to chew his way out of the house to find Morgan. The only other explanation was that he had strong feelings about the decor—in particular, the carpet by the door and all the window sills.

After months of working with a veterinary behaviorist, as well as trying pheromones, CBD, an obedience trainer, prescription drugs, multiple crates (she affectionately referred to the last and strongest one as “Alcatraz”), a second dog, a Furbo that shot treats out periodically, a video camera that allowed Bernie to hear and see Morgan, relaxing music, Dog TV, and more, Morgan knew she was beaten. She had now resigned herself to having the world’s most expensive free shelter dog.

Dressing quickly, Morgan grabbed a clean saddle pad and, with a bounce in her step, went across the street with Bernie to the high-level eventing show barn where she rode. Morgan was neither high level nor an eventer, but her weekly lesson and feigned interest in becoming a competitive eventer seemed to satisfy the trainer. Truth be told, if the barn across the street had been a “vaulting” barn where freakishly flexible girls performed acrobatics on the backs of horses, she would have just as eagerly donned a unitard, given how convenient the barn was. As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

The moment she arrived in the barn, Morgan knew something was off. The horses were upset. They were circling, pacing, and whinnying in their stalls with their heads raised and on alert. And there was no one around. Not her trainer, not the farrier, not any boarders, nor the two working students who took care of the barn and horses in exchange for learning the nuances of elite riding.

After giving a quick once over to all the horses to be sure none was injured, Morgan set about getting ready to ride, thinking she would find out where everyone was later, when they returned. She decided to ride Bumpy, given that he was likely to be more level headed than Oliver under saddle, especially after whatever it was that had wound up the horses that morning.

As she walked to the end of the barn to the tack room where the saddles and bridles were kept, she felt the familiar scratching of Bernie’s paws on her heels as he trotted behind her. It was a feeling not dissimilar to someone perpetually running over your heels with a grocery cart.

As she swung open the tack room door, she no longer had to wonder where everyone was. To her shock and horror, the girls, one of the boarders, and Colton, the farrier, were huddled in one corner while two men holding handguns wheeled around to face her when they heard the door open. One of the men yelled at her to get in the corner with the others. When the other man saw Bernie, he slammed the door shut before he could follow Morgan in.

Now standing with the others in the tack room corner and struggling to wrap her brain around what was happening, Morgan took in the scene. She saw that the thirty wall-mounted saddle racks, which just yesterday supported thirty English saddles made of buttery, imported leather, were now empty. She doubted any of the saddles was worth less than about $7,000, so she mused that perhaps the men were horsemen, as well as criminals.

Kayla, who attended high school online and was the youngest working student, was sobbing. Kathie, who was the other working student and Kayla’s roommate in the barn apartment, was attempting to comfort Kayla but was shaking and clearly terrified herself. Also in the group was Jess, a boarder from Texas who was outspoken, an extremely talented rider, and a little rough around the edges. Jess looked alarmed, but the worry on her face was almost eclipsed by the anger Morgan also saw in Jess’ eyes. Colton had positioned himself in front of the group. His eyes and face were hard as steel as he eyed the intruders. Morgan had not been around Colton much, but she thankfully guessed he was strong, given the daily challenges of shoeing uncooperative horses.

If only she had a way to work out a plan with Colton and Jess. But, given the intensity of the gunmen’s stares, any communication seemed impossible. Morgan observed that one of the intruders was of medium height, muscular and had an unshowered, greasy look to him. The only thing missing was a pornstache. The other was taller, thinner, slack jawed, and appeared strangely devoid of facial expressions. Neither of the men wore masks to hide their faces, but both wore gloves. The two seemed to be debating what to do next. The tall gunman told the other under his breath, “There are too many to take with us now.” The greasy one muttered, “And they’ve all seen our faces.” Surprising even herself, Morgan’s instinctual desire to live overtook her fear. She informed the men there were hidden cameras all over the barn, so everyone would know what they looked like anyway.

The two men glared at her and narrowed their eyes as they had an unspoken conversation with each other. The thicker man nodded at a black backpack sitting on the counter. Quickly, the other man grabbed it, removed duct tape, and began to bind the hands and feet of each of the hostages. Morgan glanced anxiously at the window pane that comprised the top half of the door to the tack room. She desperately hoped someone would walk by and see what was going on without walking in, as she had done.

Morgan knew time to do something was running out as the man worked his way through taping each of their hands and feet. She and Colton were still unrestricted at this point. After making quick eye contact with Colton and Jess, Morgan said loudly that she had to go to the bathroom. While the men were looking at her and before they could answer, Colton leapt at the man standing further away, knocking him down like he was running through a weak defensive lineman. As Colton made his move, Jess and Morgan hurled themselves at the man with the duct tape, one attempting to knee him in the groin and the other trying to choke him. Unfortunately, the tactic did not work. Their effort succeeded only at enraging the man as he knocked both of them to the side shouting profanities and holding tightly to his gun. Turning the gun on them, he yelled, “One more move like that, and it will be your last move!”

Then Morgan heard Colton demand in a booming voice that the livid man drop his gun. She looked up and was relieved to see Colton holding the gun to the shorter man’s head.  Then, abruptly grabbing Jess, who weighed 110 pounds at most, the taller man put the gun to her head and threatened Colton, “Give the gun to Mitch, or I will blow her brains out.” Colton hesitated with his face twisted in anguish, and then he started to slowly hand the gun to the man we now knew was Mitch.

Suddenly, Morgan heard the crash of breaking glass and saw something coming through the window on the top half of the door. Colton pulled the gun back, and Jess scrappily squirmed away from her captor during the distraction. As Bernie flew through the door’s glass pane, the tall man with the duct tape backed away in fear. It turns out his face was capable of expression after all. At the same time as his eyes widened at the size of the dog who had just hit the floor with all of the broken glass, both Morgan and Jess went for the man’s gun. He tried to fight off the surprise attack, but Jess came up with the gun and fearlessly pointed it at him.

With both men now held at gunpoint, Morgan pulled her phone out to call 911. By now, Bernie had rushed over to sit in front of her and lick her hand. He was panting heavily through a large Bernese smile and whining with relief that he had found Morgan. The police arrived shortly thereafter, took custody of the criminals, and recovered all the saddles from the men’s van that was parked behind the barn.

After Morgan gave her statement to the police, she shakily sat down in the grass outside the barn, gazing at her unexpectedly “heroic” dog. It occurred to her how quickly people tend to label events or facts as “good” or “bad,” instead of letting enough time elapse to make a fair assessment of them. For example, she certainly had viewed Bernie’s separation anxiety as an unbelievably bad thing when she first discovered it and unsuccessfully tried to work through it. But this previously labeled “bad” thing had turned out to be what may have saved their lives. Looking back, it certainly now seemed like fate had a hand in her adoption of Bernie.

Morgan recalled how Bernie never barked, growled at the men or did anything at all to intentionally protect the group. Instead, he just missed his mom at the right time.

Morgan smiled to herself as she realized that fate is resourceful. While she gratefully accepted Bernie’s invitation to give him a belly rub, Morgan took comfort in her newly strengthened belief. Even when you think you have run out of solutions to a problem, the benevolent hand of fate always has more up its sleeve.