WHEN YOU HEAR HOOFBEATS, THINK HORSES

Oakland University

Not zebras.

I often wonder about the man that coined that old medical proverb. What an absurd life he must have had.

A waiting room hums with life and sick. A name is called, and a goat leaps from her chair. She bounces across the floor, loud and bumbling. He will say she is too flouncy and energetic. He prescribes her Concerta and Ritalin. The cow is called back next. She is too stalky, slow-moving, and unmotivated to enter races, rodeos, or even the show-jumping circuit. The stethoscope says she should be more limber, more ambitious. He prescribes yoga and an antidepressant. The pig and the hippo are next, and the camel will go later. They will all be told they have lumps and bulges where they ought to be lean and trim, and given cards directing them to weightloss clinics or liposuction centers. The deer and antelope are malnourished. The yak and the ox are ballooned with steroids. The reindeer needs special ed classes.

The camel just returned; she had her hump liposuction as instructed, and had those thick hairy pads waxed from chest and knees while she was at it. She receives a lot of compliments now but can’t run like she used to. Her skin is all fire and prickly tingles; she’s sick often with heat flashes and chills, and constantly faint. She looks more pony than she ever has, but she used to dream of racing with mustangs. Now she can hardly wobble to the back room. It’s probably just the flu, the stethoscope will tell her. Just get some rest. When she comes back next year, still suffering with “the flu,” he’ll charge her for another antibiotic and scoot her out the door.

The lamb goes next; she is underdeveloped. She will need hormone supplements. The zebra and the giraffe are social misfits. Don’t worry, though, that’s probably just a phase. They’ll grow out of those features that make them so unique and unfortunate. For now, just cake some foundation over those zig-zag scars. They’ll fade with time and shame. If that freckled girl’s ridiculous neck doesn’t even out, though, consider plastic surgery.

The stallion, however, is given a clean bill of health. His portrait is hung on every wall, his mold is cast from iron in the back room. The slithering stethoscope escorts his discharge and watches him leave; his hard, little tail rattles with ecstasy.