**Chapter 8: Debut Plan**
Mid-May brought a faint warmth to Hokkaido's air, and Nishiken Ranch buzzed with quiet purpose. Ogawa Jou, Trainer Tanaka, and Rider Genta Ochiai sat around a weathered table in the ranch's small office, papers and coffee cups scattered between them, discussing Medaima's debut.
"His bloodline's solid for dirt tracks," Jou said, leaning back in his chair. "Those wide hooves should handle most surfaces just fine."
Tanaka nodded, flipping through his notes. "How's his growth coming along?"
Jou hesitated, rubbing his jaw. "No real change in weight since last week."
Medaima was a finicky eater, turning his nose up at everything except diced apples. Fresh grass? Compound feed? Forget it. Jou's brow creased with worry—this was the kind of quirk that could stall a horse's progress.
Tanaka turned to Genta. "What's your take, Genta?"
Genta, who'd been quietly sipping his coffee, set the cup down. "His movements are smooth. Not the most flexible, but he doesn't waste energy when he runs. Efficient, I'd say."
"And his headspace?" Tanaka pressed.
Genta paused, choosing his words. "He's… unpredictable. But he picks up commands fast and remembers them. Sharp memory for a colt."
Tanaka nodded, scribbling a note. "Good to know."
He leaned back, tapping his pen against the schedule. "What about the 1,000-meter race on the 23rd? Thoughts?"
For a March-born colt like Medaima, a late-May debut wasn't rushed. But with his growth plateauing, waiting longer might squander the slight edge his early birth gave him. Horses grew fast—four times faster than humans, by some measures—but Medaima's weight wasn't keeping pace with his age-mates.
Tanaka figured an early race could test the colt's potential without banking on future gains.
Jou rubbed his chin, glancing at the calendar. "It's a tight timeline, but we'll make it work."
"No issues here," Genta added, his tone clipped but confident.
"Then it's settled," Tanaka said, circling the date on the schedule. "I'll run it by Mr. Kitano."
With that, the meeting wrapped up, the three men parting ways under the soft hum of the ranch's daily rhythm.
---
Meanwhile, a few miles away, Kitano crouched in a sheep pen, his focus fixed on a pile of Merino lamb droppings. Beside him, a middle-aged man in a crisp suit—clearly out of place in the muddy pen—watched with barely concealed discomfort.
"See these?" Kitano said, pointing to the scat with a gloved hand. "Undigested milk lumps."
The man, the ranch's manager, shifted awkwardly. "Uh, right."
Kitano stood, peeling off his gloves and gently prying open the lamb's mouth for a quick check. Normal oral mucosa, steady gait—no signs of foot-and-mouth disease. The lamb blinked up at him, wagging its tail and pursing its lips in a comical pout.
The manager relaxed slightly. "So, it's not a big deal, then?"
"Not necessarily," Kitano said, shaking his head. "Small lumps might pass with normal digestion, but if they're large or start sticking to the gut, you could have a blockage. That's serious."
The manager's face tightened. "Can we fix it quick?"
"We need to pinpoint the cause first," Kitano replied, his tone patient but firm. The manager might know how to run a ranch's books, but livestock health wasn't his strong suit. All Kitano had to go on from the initial call was vague talk of leg weakness and poor appetite among the lambs.
"Got feeding records for the ewes from mid-to-late pregnancy?" Kitano asked, scanning the tidy pens and grazing area. No sharp objects, no cramped spaces—environmental factors and lack of exercise were unlikely culprits. Parasites or viruses were possible, but he wanted to rule out diet first.
"Yeah, everything's logged on the computer," the manager said, leading Kitano to a small office. "Feeding times, batches, all of it."
Kitano scanned the records on the screen. "Nutrition's fine, but the green forage is too low. After ewes give birth, you can cut back on concentrated feed and greens for a bit, but once they're nursing, you need to ramp it up again."
He turned to the manager. "Give the lamb two milliliters of vitamin B complex, intramuscular. Monitor its temperature for the next two days and keep a log of its droppings. If the leg weakness doesn't improve, call me."
The manager frowned, then whispered instructions to an employee, who looked less than thrilled about the task.
With the consultation done, Kitano headed back to his car. The fee wouldn't hit his account for a while, but it was a small lifeline. Medaima's boarding costs had set him back over a million yen, and if not for a few farmers settling their winter vet bills, he'd be back to living on bean sprouts.
In the driver's seat, he checked his phone. Messages from Jou, Tanaka, and Genta popped up, each summarizing their thoughts on Medaima's debut. The 23rd was the date.
Kitano tapped the steering wheel, thinking it over for a moment. Then he typed a quick reply: "Sounds good. Let's do it."
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