Dolly is the horse’s name
Below is a draft passage from my current work in progress, A Spent Bullet.
The scene: a barn in Bundick, La. September 1941. 18 year old Butch struggles with his decision to join the military as war clouds loom. His father, a “Great War veteran” (what WWI was called then) is opposed and attempts to use this “teachable moment” to explain why he opposes the war.
Poppa and Butch had many mutual loves, their love of horses being probably their strongest bond. Neither man looked at the other. Poppa knelt down, checking Dolly’s foreleg. “I’ve always been bothered by the fact that a horse dying disturbed me more than the death of a man next to me.”
“Poppa, you’re talking about the Great War?”
There was a silence that allowed both men’s minds to drift.
The barn’s strong smells of horse sweat, hay, and fresh manure was an atmosphere both men felt at home in.
“I am. I’ve seen war up close. It’s a terrible thing, son.”