How Not to Rescue a Racehorse

Early that Tuesday morning, Harvey looked out of the kitchen window and asked, “Why’s the horse trailer hooked up to your Expedition?” My husband never notices things like that—and especially not when he’s rushing off to work over an hour away in D.C. What made him break out of the mold today, of all days? He put me on the spot. I didn’t want to lie, but neither was I about to tell him the truth. There was nothing wrong with the truth…it’s just that Harvey wouldn’t believe it. Instead there would be a fight, a big, unnecessary one. And there was no time for a fight—I was scheduled to leave in half an hour. I wasn’t looking forward to the three hour journey, but luckily Josie was coming with me. She’s a competent, horsey friend. If my ancient Expedition broke down or the horse went berserk in the trailer, I wouldn’t have to deal with it alone. Not that I had any idea what to do if either of those disasters occurred—just knowing I wouldn’t have to cope by myself was comforting. However, I urgently needed to get my husband out of the door before Josie arrived and blurted out the details of our mission. I’d not explained to her that this information was on a Need-To-Know Basis—and Harvey didn’t Need-To-Know right now. Another horsey friend had called last night, asking if I could transport some items in my trailer for her that afternoon. I divulged this request to Harvey. It was the truth…just not the whole truth. “Oh,” he said, giving me a goodbye peck on the cheek. “Have a great day, then. Love you!” “Love you, too!” I waved at his broad back and turned to my next big problem…