**Chapter 23: Drifting Toward Summer**
"469 this time. That's two kilos heavier than his debut!"
Ogawa Masaru's voice brimmed with excitement as he led Mejiro Pegasus back to the stable, reporting the news to his father.
"Good work, Masaru," Ogawa Take said, ruffling his son's hair.
(TL: I forgot too tell yaal, Ogawa take is Ogawa Jo, different mtl so different word)
Mejiro Pegasus had been growing steadily, though subtly, since his first race. Only those who worked closely with him—like Masaru—would notice the gradual changes. Gray horses, with their muted coat color, often hid their physique under a soft blur. But now, Pegasus's chest muscles, once buried beneath fur, were starting to show definition. Masaru's careful attention had clearly paid off.
"I'm gonna tell Kitano-san the good news!" Masaru said, already turning to leave.
"Go ahead," Take replied with a nod, settling at the computer.
He didn't catch the slight shift in how Masaru referred to Kitano.
Take opened the horse management log and recorded Pegasus's latest weight. Clicking the mouse, he paused, lost in thought. Pegasus was a horse who held his racing form with minimal training—a rare trait that gave him an edge among his peers.
But Take's mind drifted to the future. At three years old, Pegasus would face mixed-age races, where physical maturity and experience often trumped raw talent. Older horses would likely outmatch him in stamina and savvy.
"What a headache," Take muttered, eyes fixed on the screen as he tweaked the training schedule.
No one would fault him for coasting. Kitano, the horse's owner, wasn't obsessed with races or prize money, and Jockey Ochiai hadn't complained about Pegasus's prep. Grazing and basic care would satisfy everyone. It was the easy path.
But Kitano had entrusted Take completely from the start. That trust deserved effort in return.
"Pegasus recovers faster than I expected," Take mused, finalizing the week's training plan. The horse wasn't a stamina powerhouse, but he bounced back from races and workouts by the next day. If not for his slow physical growth, he'd be a real contender.
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Meanwhile, Kitano hung up the phone, a grin spreading across his face.
"That's great," he said, echoing his earlier words from the call.
He decided to bring extra hay on his next visit to the ranch. Flipping the clinic's sign to "Open," he began the day. Grabbing the latest issue of *Yushun* and a bag of cookies from a nearby bakery, he settled in the break room. No house calls were scheduled today—a rare chance to relax, barring any surprises.
As if on cue, an unfamiliar car—likely a rental—pulled up outside. Kitano guessed they were tourists, probably lost horse enthusiasts visiting Hokkaido's Hidaka ranches during summer vacation. He set down his magazine as two young men burst in, carrying a hefty husky onto the counter.
"Doctor, please save Kintaro!" one of them pleaded, voice tight with worry.
Kitano blinked. "What happened?"
The husky, Kintaro, looked a tad overweight, with rolls of fat bunching around his waist as he lay on the counter. Otherwise, he seemed fine—lively, even, drooling over the cookies on the table.
"He ate buttercups!" one of the men blurted.
Kitano's face turned serious. "Are you sure?"
Buttercups were no joke. Their protoanemonin could irritate a dog's mouth and gut, causing salivation, vomiting, or worse. It was peak buttercup season, and Kitano had seen cases like this before. But a husky? That was new.
"Look, this is a buttercup, right?" The man held up his phone, zooming in on a photo.
Kitano studied it, then said flatly, "That's a dandelion."
The men froze.
"But… Kintaro hasn't eaten since he chewed it," one said, hesitant.
"Was he already full?" Kitano dangled a cookie above Kintaro's nose. The husky's mouth snapped open, tail wagging furiously.
"And the drooling?" the other man asked, pointing to the steady drip from Kintaro's tongue.
"Could've been from exercise earlier," Kitano said. He popped the cookie into his own mouth. Kintaro's tail stopped mid-wag, and he let out a pitiful bark, nuzzling his owner's hand.
"He's probably just hungry now," Kitano said with a shrug. "But if you're worried, I can check his temperature or look for oral issues."
He shone a flashlight into Kintaro's mouth. "Perfectly healthy."
The men exchanged sheepish glances, then awkwardly lifted Kintaro off the counter and shuffled out.
Kitano picked up his magazine again. The interruption had eaten up some time, but he wasn't bothered. Helping animals—and their worried owners—was his job. Still, he thought, maybe it was time for a clearer clinic sign.
Outside, the faint hum of cicadas grew louder. Kitano grabbed the air conditioner remote and nudged the temperature down a degree.
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