My heart is broken, my spirit dashed. And this much I know, though the pain may lessen and the anger subside, the hurt will never go away.

He was my Baby Buckaroo. My little colt – so strong and beautiful. He was going to be horse for the rest of my riding days. I’ve raised and lost beloved pets – dear friends – before. It’s always hard. And those of you that appreciate a life – no matter how small – probably know the sadness of the loss. But when a baby dies it so much harder. You don’t have all those beautiful memories to hang on to. Instead you are left with the saddest words, “what might have been…”

His stall is empty now, but in time it will again be occupied; perhaps even with another beautiful little foal. But there will be a little part of me – where my little horse lived – that will be forever empty.

Good-bye Baby Buckaroo. I’ll never forget you.

Baby Face

And now, the fabulous Baby Buckaroo at 7 – 10 days old.
Gosh, I remember him when he was just a day old. Seems like just last week!

On a clear night, when the moon is full – or near to – the night can be like daytime at Rosemary Farm. Such was the case Sunday night. So around eleven o’clock we took a walk down the hill to Middle Earth to see the small herd in the field. We do this often, but now with Molly so close to foaling we do it regularly. Sunday evening was particularly beautiful; warm and clear with a soft breeze and deep moon shadows. We brought some grain with us for the horse and call to them as we walked the path to the pasture.

Hello Jack. Hi Heidi. That’s a good boy Dash. Where’s Molly? We shake the grain bucket. Molly?

I shined the flashlight out across the long field. Her black figure appeared like a standing shadow against the silhouette of the trees. But there was something different. She was thinner. And there from between her legs we could see behind her four smaller, long, thin, wobbly legs.

We approached her with caution. She turned to greet us and walking around her came Baby Buckaroo. At one hour old, he was standing and walking tall and strong and just cute as the day he was born!

We stayed in the field for about an hour watching mother and child. We did not get too close so as not to upset Molly. Baby Buckaroo bounced around his mother under the starry summer night sky, nursing and looking out at at a world brand new to him. We decided to leave them there in the field where they seemed most comfortable and safe with their small herd nearby.

The next morning we woke up early and ran down to the field to welcome Baby Buckaroo to Rosemary Farm.

Baby Buckaroo

Molly and Baby Buckaroo

So we attended a horse auction on April 16, my new favorite place to be; as wrenching as it sometimes is, there are always a few surprises, and sometimes there is horse gold to be found under a little dirt. It was a double auction that day, with draft horses in the morning and then regular horses in the evening. My goal was to buy one, just one, in need, with potential. To find a bit of horse gold. It was chilly and rainy that day, and the two auction schedule was really putting a whammy of hurt on me emotionally. I put several horses in the first auction on my short list, and even bid on a few but whenever there is a private buyer, I stop; hey, there are plenty to go around! So I hadn’t pulled a horse by the evening sale. It was late in the day when two colts arrived, and a friend spotted them first. “The Story” was that these two colts were really registered Irish Draught horses, very expensive top of the line horses, but were being sold without registration papers. One was supposed to be pure Irish Draught and the second, a Thoroughbred cross. Supposedly worth $5k each. The man who brought them was handing out a phone number for the new owners to call, so that the papers could be ‘purchased separately’. Probably not legal, and certainly not the best plan, and not the auction for high end colts. Besides, they were a mess; very thin, unhandled, rain rot, long hooves, clearly not started well or maintained. The general opinion was that “if it sounds too good to be true it probably is”, what would high end colts be doing at this auction house, in this condition, without papers; and that the story wasn’t true, that the colts were just grade mixes. Few believed the story, fewer even cared. So it was that they hit the auction floor.

I guess the owner/rep hadn’t stuck around for the actual sale, and no one told the auctioneer this story, or else he didn’t buy it either. The colts were brought out together, initially called ‘fillies’, with no mention of their possible heritage. Bidding began low without much interest; colts don’t sell for a lot at this auction. I was bidding and someone else down front was also. At first I wasn’t sure who, but finally realized it was a man and wife, not a kill buyer, so I stopped bidding and let him win at $125. Surprisingly he only took one colt, the one who was supposed to be a full draft colt. So the auctioneer offered me the second colt for the same price, $125. While tempted, it went against my personal rule to only buy if the horses’ life is in danger, so I declined. Bidding began again on the second colt, and no one was interested. Finally they dropped the opening bid to $50, which was cheap enough even for the kill buyer on such a small colt, so he bid. I couldn’t let the little guy to to slaughter! I jumped back in and bid $60. “Sold!” I had saved the colt. I didn’t know what he was, but he was a young colt in need, and that was enough. (interesting note of personal importance; if the KB had really wanted him he would have bid again; I have a feeling that his personal rule is that if a horse has a home, he doesn’t bother bidding again; I have seen him let many horses go once someone wanted it).

I have a fellow who trucks for me who delivered him the next day. Beautiful, but a total mess he was when he walked off the trailer. And clearly not trained at all. It’s normal for them to be scared and he certainly was. We put him in the side paddock next to the house so I could keep an eye on him, and turned him loose. He really was a looker, with a star and snip and dark muzzle and beautiful head; his body still fuzzy with winter woolies, super soft fur of baby colts. He began exploring and I tried to interact with him, but that was a no go. He wasn’t going to come near me. I tried holding out a piece of apple, but he wouldn’t come near me; I tried tossing it to him and he might as well thought it was a bomb! Likewise with grain, which he had never seen. I was very discouraged the first few days with his lack of interaction; I couldn’t touch him.

In the meantime, I called the phone number that I had been given. I also had the name of the supposed sire of the colts, a horse named “Double Diamond”, who is the closest breeding relative to “King of Diamonds”, one of the pillars of the Irish Draught breed. If this was true, the colts were indeed from champion lines. The first and only conversation with the breeder wasn’t very successful; he was pretty angry at the colts selling for such a low amount, and would not confirm parentage, lineage, birthdates, or anything really, except that I could get all this information from him if I paid $2k. As a sanctuary I don’t have that kind of money. He did admit that the colts hadn’t had any shots and hadn’t ever worn halters before, which explained the thin and wild condition. I thanked him and told him I would consider it. But actually I was kind of angry at this angry fellow; how could he let two babies go into an auction with no shots, with no halter training, with not even the financial protection that their registration might have provided? Short sighted at best, and very selfish at worst.

Next I got online and contacted two people to help; 1) the Irish Draught Association, and 2)the owners of the supposed stud.

Both groups were immediately and warmly forthcoming. But it was the second that proved the more important. The owners of “Double Diamond” brought this horse to the U.S, where they live in Florida. He has been shown competitively internationally and is only bred on occasion. This family loves their horse and were truly shocked to hear that one of his progeny had ended up in danger of slaughter. Some investigation was done, and it was determined that I had in my yard, “MacBreidagh’s Summerbank” an 11 month old Irish Sport Horse, who was 3/4 Irish Draught and 1/4 Thoroughbred, with lineage tracing back to Seattle Slew. And as a son of ‘Double Diamond”, a direct lineage to the best of the Irish Draughts. He has “King of Diamonds” three times in his pedigree. Well what a little star he was turning out to be.

In the meantime, our mystery colt in the side paddock was learning that this wasn’t such a bad place to be. With 1/2 acre to call his own, and various other fields and horses to view, all the nice hay he could eat, Ringo started to come around. After much persuading, he finally tried the grain, and then allowed some petting. In a very short time he was following me around in the field, bringing his head in to turns, learning how to gently walk together on lead…all in all becoming quite a charming little boy.

I was unfamiliar with Irish Draughts and crosses; these sport horses excel in jumping and dressage, and his breeding could support a great future in high end competitive horse circles, even as an Olympic contender; IF he received the right care and training. Being a stranger to these circles, I was unsure that I was up to the task. The family of his sire wanted to adopt little Ringo, as he was now being called, and raise him to have such a future. With that possibility for him, how could I say No? There are many many colts who don’t have this, colts like Finn, and now Jude, colts that need me more. So plans were made, vet papers arranged, and a contract drawn up so that Ringo could move to Florida.

Any horse that is adopted out goes with a contract that hopefully keeps them in contact with the farm and out of auctions and slaughter houses in the future. While there is never a guarantee, it’s our hope to keep them safe for their lifetime. Ringo left with such a contract, so we will be able to track his success in the world. Over the two weeks that he lived here, he softened up, decided that humans were not all bad, and that scratches could make an afternoon. He really was a lovely personality and will grow up to be a looker, to be sure. His new family drove up to pick him up this past weekend. They are changing his registered name, by the way, to reflect his family heritage, as well as his close brush with danger; He will now be “Diamonds to the Rescue” (altho’ he will still be called Ringo).  Ringo turned out to be ‘gold’ for sure, but then again, I say that every week, about every one.

Those of you up to date on your ‘Rosemary Farm’ blogs will be familiar with the story of Molly, the pregnant perchie pulled from the slaughter truck to come and live at the farm (please read “Getting Molly” for the full story).

Molly had been living basically wild in a field for years, with a stallion, having babies, before I met her. Clearly her little experience with humans didn’t give her a lot of reason to respect us as a species. When I first saw Molly she had a hay string tied around her throat latch, dangling down so she kept stepping on it, choking. I will never forget that image of Molly.  It wasn’t easy at first because Molly wasn’t used to a human relationship; she thought she was in charge, and was going through all sorts of separation from her horse family. She bit me hard one day, in the back, when I didn’t ‘listen’ to her, so we had to re-order things. My fault and my responsibility to fix. Now we are close friends, and she ‘gets’ that I am in charge and will protect her, instead of the other way around.  She enjoys her special massive pregnancy stall and getting grain twice a day, and calls to me in a guttural whinny that pulls at my heart. Her pregnancy has been advancing normally and we are in daily expectation of a little bundle of equine joy any day now. All has been well.

I would add here “and she lived happily ever after”, but we had another incident a few days ago. It was a warm spring evening, the farm in early bloom. I had been down with the horses all afternoon and left to fix dinner. Molly had been eyeing the nearby field earlier, and now pushed open a gate and wandered out on our property, to graze the fresh grass. I had seen her around 6pm, and by 8pm realized she was gone. I wasn’t too worried, as she knows this is home and isn’t interested in leaving, and this was my first mistake. I was thinking that ‘I trusted her’, not that ’she might be in danger’. We looked for her as the light faded to black, but after a few hours into the night,  became concerned. She wasn’t in any usual or favored spot, and there was no whinnying reply to my calls. It was about 11pm, and Robert went to check on the water tank for the main herd. As he was filling it, I sat in the car that we had been driving over our property, and the headlights were playing tricks in the shadows. How could I be seeing a horses’ shadow in front of me, down the bank, when the horses were behind me? I turned around to see if the light was bouncing off something behind them, but it was not. I looked ahead again, and the shadow moved. Oh my god, it was Molly, down in the swampy area. Or was it? It wasn’t big enough to be Molly, but looked like her profile; had Molly foaled and that was her baby? We scrambled down the hill, it was much worse then I could imagine. Molly had wandered into an area that, decades ago, used to be a manure pit. The containing wall had been removed over 15 years earlier, and all that remained was a swampy, smelly field. I had walked it myself. But one area that was strong enough to support a walking human was apparently not enough for a pregnant draft mare, and she had fallen through. Where there had been stubby grass that afternoon was now a black pit of old sulpherous manure swamp, and Molly was sunk up to her sides. Clearly she had been there hours, struggling and digging in deeper. She was exhausted and terrified. Of course we began furiously digging but it was clear it was too deep for us to handle. Robert called the fire department (which he happens to be a member of) while I stayed with Molly, and trucks and police soon arrived on the scene. It was nice to see friendly faces, the guys Robert works with every week. We all kept digging together, but it only got worse. Molly was exhausted and was sinking further. We tried to dig around her at the girth line to run something under her, but she was too big. It was about this time when I truly felt she might die. Her breathing was labored and she was disappearing into the black earth. We needed to get something around her, and quickly. We found a piece of metal and Robert curved it to snake around her, at first hitting her sides below, and the men tried again. Finally it worked, sliding underneath her enough that they could grab it on the other side.. All of this is being done now after midnight, in a dark pit, with emergency vehicles lighting the area, and every human covered in black muck as we all fell down over and over into the mire.

Once the metal was under her, a rope was attached to this; then a fire hose, each pulled carefully under and around Molly’s girth line. I stayed at her head, talking to her, giving her bits of grass. The fire crew was wonderful about understanding her pregnancy and trying to save the baby as well. When we had the hose around her, we hooked it to the fire truck crank parked back on the road, and began to pull. Molly’s front end came up out of the ground, but began to spin around, and the belt started sliding off. We had to stop. At least she could breathe better now, but was still stuck. We added a second line, around under her tail, which I was in charge of. She had been stuck awhile and had pooped over everything, and I was trying to see if she was in labor as well. Her long black tail was caught and filthy. My hands were freezing. I was able to push the line around her haunches, partway,and we tried pulling again. The rope snapped up, catching under her tail bone, threatening to snap it,  and I  yell for them to stop over the sounds of the motor. This repeated at least three times, as we would pull, the stop, then re-set. Molly was clearly out of energy, and getting very cold. Finally, the angle was right and they pulled again, and Molly was dragged out slowly on her side; when clear enough she began scrambling herself, shaking off gear and lines as she tried to stand. It was now 1:30 am, and she was shaking with cold, fear and exhaustion as she pulled herself shakily to her feet, with Robert at her head. We were all covered in black mud and shivering. But Molly was out.

I didn’t get to properly thank the crew as they wrapped up, as I had to take Molly right away for some food so she could generate some heat. She was very wobbly. After walking her, both of us shaking, grazing her so she could warm up, I got her to her stall and blanketed her. We were all as shaken as you can imagine. Molly seemed to understand all that had happened and was just as great as she could be. Showers and warm drinks helped the humans, and by the next morning it seemed that Molly would live. I did call my vet in the middle of the night, and they said what I feared, that either the baby would live or not, that we would have to wait and see. In the morning I walked Molly, brushed all the mud off of her, gave her extra grain, and did a physical inspection. No signs of labor, tail bone seems to have survived, no fever, and all limbs intact with no heat or swelling. She seemed shaken but ok. Now it’s been a few days and we have seen the baby kick. Molly is content. So it seems that Molly had yet another miracle in her life.

There were several mistakes and several miracles in this tale; my two mistakes were to not have that gate securely enough to stop a horse, and to not take her wandering off as seriously as it was. The miracles were that I saw her head poking out that night, in the black shadow of the hill, and that the fire department was able to save her from it.

There are so many people who have intervened in this mare’s life that I can be nothing but grateful; from the friends at auction who first helped me cut loose that hay string, to the rescue groups who helped me track the horse broker, even to that buyer who was willing to sell her to me instead of to slaughter that day; to the friends who helped fund her purchase and the other rescue group that contributed to her pregnancy vet bills… and now, for the Hobart Fire Department who saved Molly’s life from the swamp pit that would surely have ended it; who treated her like the family member that she is. Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts.

We hope we can now say, “and she lived happily ever after”.

I have been working with Scooter this past week, a damaged haflinger gelding who arrived a week ago at our farm (read “The mystery of Scooter” for more info). Scooter is healing physically but has proven very difficult to interact with; hiding in the corner of his stall, flinching when looked at, tense and scared. Actually, he has reminded me more of my wild mustang Whisper than any older trained horse. Of course I now know why; Because he is a wild horse! Scooter and Star are untrained.

I tracked down the last owner on his registration, who was happy to fill me in on the mystery of Scooter. Turns out, he owned Scooter and Star both for most of their lives. He has many haffies and they were a small part of his farm. A few months ago, an older gentleman client  wanted a driving team, but wanted them cheap. Trained driving horses aren’t cheap, so he picked out two horses from the field who were NOT trained. Scooter, a handsome 11 year old roan haffie, and Star, a sweet blonde 8 year old mare. Neither trained. Scooter was driven about five years ago a few times, but since has been living in a field, fairly wild. He bucked when they tried to ride him, so that wasn’t pursued either. Star wasn’t trained beyond halter;  altho’ apparently sweet, she wasn’t used. They were living what was probably a pretty happy horse life, in large fields with run in shelters and other horses, for many years untouched. Until sold, for $800 for the pair. Just four months ago.

So neither was trained to ride, nor were they trained to drive, either solo or as a team.  But around Christmas were sold to someone who wanted to do this with them. I am guessing it didn’t go very well, which isn’t really surprising since Scooter is now 11 years old and hadn’t been touched in the last five. It sounds like they have been passed around a few times since then, as many owners as months, people trying to ride and move them, etc, until they were sold at the New Holland auction to a kill buyer. You can imagine the stress and misery that these horses endured over the past few months, each time getting worse, and sinking quickly. The loss of their lifetime family and freedom surely came as a blow, especially to the proud Scooter. It’s not surprising that they ended up in a kill lot, ready to ship to slaughter in Canada.

This kill buyer has a relationship with a horse rescue, which helps pull horses out of the lot for ‘adoption’ fees which are not so cheap, but it is a chance to save them. Scooter and Star were about $1,400 after all fees, plus shipping.  A video was made showing the two being ridden, and told that they drove as well. It’s amazing that the two behaved as well as they did in that short video, considering they hadn’t been ridden before January! They were bareback and Scooter tried several times to bite his rider on the leg, but they did ride briefly. So with their registration and with this description as a trained pair, they were bailed out by Rosemary Farm’s friends and by Scooters breeder Kathi.

They were delayed in shipping because they got sick. All that transport, moving, living in stalls, pressure to perform, took it’s toll. When they were finally released to come to our farm they were sick, Scooter much sicker then Star, with a full blown case of strangles. Angry, confused, pressured, and mis-trustful, they got off the trailer a week ago, to begin their recovery here.

So who bears the blame for these horses sad plight? For the sick and damaged horses that got off the trailer here? The original owner seems that he was honest in his sale. I think that other horse dealers may have seen this sale as unkind or unwise for the horses, but it was legal, and to the right person it could have turned out differently. The second owner knew what he was getting; I don’t know his side of the story, but I know that he sold the horses soon after getting them. They were probably too much to handle. I don’t know who initially tagged them as ‘trained to ride and drive as a team’, but it does seem irresponsible for anyone to say that unless they know for sure. It’s irresponsible to the possible owner, and to the horses mostly. The horses who didn’t ask to be in this situation, who’s lives have become equated with dollars, and who are paying for humans greed. So I am a little angry and little upset and very sad for these two. This is another version of a sad tale being told week after week in the kill pens.

At least now I know the Scooter really is the wild horse that I perceived. And that his trust is rightfully damaged. That his training has to start right at the beginning. He was a vibrant sassy colt from all accounts and I know that horse is in there somewhere.  I can only hope to find the skills to help him.

Our few new rescues these past week turned into six new members of Rosemary Farm (plus a guest who we helped save from slaughter!). It’s been a traumatic time getting them all home from the kill pens in Pa. By far the sickest horse to date has been the handsome and mysterious hafflinger Scooter.

Scooter finally arrived with his teammate, Star, with a full blown case of strangles. This is serious but I quickly learned not as serious as his major mistrust of humans. It’s still a mystery what happened to him or how ‘deep’ it is, but I know that underneath is a friendly and honorable horse. I know this not from osmosis, but from some amazing information shared by his original breeder. This generous woman is no longer able to breed, but when she did, she did so with thought for temperment and beauty both. When she heard that Scooter was in a kill pen, she put up most of his bail, which allowed me to fundraise for Star and keep them together. Soon after, she sent me an email that I want to share here. It is a priceless gift. If I only had this kind of information on all of the rescues. Thank you Kathi, for being the kind of breeder that we all wish to know. I hope to take good care of your boy.

“Dear Dawn, My name is Kathi R. I own T. W. Farm in C., PA. I sponsored “Mean Motor Scooter, TWF” after being contacted by Lisa from “Another Chance 4 Horses”. I am his breeder. I understand that he and his partner “Lite Star Dake” will be coming to live with you and I wanted to thank you for giving him and his buddy a home. I couldn’t stand the thought of him going to slaughter. I had to give up breeding and showing five years ago because I have become disabled. I miss it, but I can also say that I saw the “signs” and felt it was a good time to stop breeding anyway because of the down turn in the economy and horse market. I was always so careful about whom I sold my horses to, it’s scary that one of them could still wind up in a situation like “Scooter” did. In case you wanted to know something about him for yourself or if you were going to adopt him out, His mom, “Luwina” was my first broodmare. I bought her in 1990. She was well broke to ride and drive in pleasure or work harness and was quiet, gentle and steady as a rock. Although she wasn’t used as a work horse, she did a few things around the farm now and then like help me harrow the garden or spread lime with a partner. I had a sleigh and she seemed to love to go for sleigh rides when it snowed. She was the best trail horse I ever rode.

She was a great mom and she seemed to love her filly foals, but her stud foals were ornary and mischevious. I had a special foaling field for my mares and the night they foaled, I kept an eye on them from a distance then brought them into a box stall for the first night after the baby was up. Whenever she had a stud, she would just stand there and look exasperated like “here we go again”. “Scooter’ was a little Dennis the Menace. He was always pulling on his mom’s tail, taking her halter off her head or stealing milk from the other broodmares. He would sneak up behind them when they were grazing and he could snake his way around their rear end and twist his neck so that he could get a little drink before she discovered he wasn’t her foal. No one believed me until one day my vet witnessed it. That’s how he got his name. I remembered this song from when I was in my twenties. I can’t remember the band or the name of the song, but there was a line in it that said “I’m a mean motor scooter and a bad go getter”. I’d see him run from a standing start and kick up dirt like he was spinning his wheels, and that song would come to mind. I believed he was not yet a yearling when I sold him, but no older.

His mom later developed a back problem that left her unable to move her tail back and forth, and sometimes she would have trouble getting up from lying down. I retired her from breeding and she had her own small pasture next to the other horses’ field so she could still be with them and she did well with her medication for quite some time, but one day she decided she was tired and didn’t want to get up. She’d lay there and munch her hay, but when my boyfriend and I tried to lift her with a big belt and his high lift, she would seem to go into a trance and not even try to stand. When we let her back down, she’d resume munching her hay. After three tries, I knew she was telling me she was done and ready to go. I was still working as a vet tech and I had one of my vet friends come out. I sat down at her head and when Dr. Becky put the catheter in her vein, she laid over and put her head in my lap and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and I let her go to heaven. She’s buried in a place of honor by the stable next to my wonderful stallion that I lost a year ago.

Scooter’s dad is McIntire 4DA whom I sold to my neighbor many years ago when I put my new stallion into service. He is getting up in years, but he was gorgeous. After I sold him, they had me show him for them at the county fair and every year, he won the Grand Championship. He is a big baby. They stopped showing him a couple years ago. I have photos of Scooter’s mom and dad if you would like them. When I became disabled, I sold all of my young broodmares to one local family. They were an answer to my prayers as it broke my heart to sell them. I had bred them all, starting with their grand mothers and great grand mothers. They were like my kids, but I didn’t want them to waste away in the field. I have my three old broodmares and two older geldings and we live in happy retirement together with two rescued cats, one dog and 16 chickens. My boyfriend calls my farm “The Country Club”.

I hope I didn’t bore you, but I always wanted to know as much about a horse as I could when I bought them. Even though I know little of Scooter after he left here, atleast you know the background from which he came. Please let me know when he arrives and how he does.”

A month has gone by without a post as I have been sucked into facebook like crack cocaine for laptop users. I had no idea the potential to reach so many animal lovers and new horse friends. Our new page for the farm as really taken off, connecting us with other rescues around the country. So we tried our first fundraiser, for a perchie mare listed online, as In Line, to get on the big trucks to slaughter. Overnight her funding was raised. Wow! So I thought, “I’ll just add one of those poor broodmares, since the trailer is coming anyway”. Bam, money raised. Then there was the pair of haffies, surprisingly un-adopted, with time really running out. Fundraising on Thursday got them bailed by Friday, and the trailer, now for four, was set for Monday following. Whoa, that was fast.

Then the trouble began. I got a note on Saturday that the haffies weren’t coming, but no explanation why. I panicked, yes, I did panic. And was left in that state until Sunday afternoon, when I learn that not only were the haffies sick, but my poor overdue broodmare had gone into labor and had a stillborn foal.  They can’t release three of the four. A day later, she dies. Ah, no. I don’t want to recount the broodmare tragedy here, it deserves it’s own story. Suffice to say that rescue is an ugly business in ways that are both obvious and surprising.

Meanwhile our facebook fans, who rallied and raised funds for these horse rescues, are right there, keeping up with the progress, and growing. The grey mare is held for another week, the haffies are sick, and now there’s an empty space on the trailer. A fourth horse is added last minute, an older palimino gelding, Remy. He is the only good thing to come of that poor mare’s death.

OK, following monday, NOW four horses should arrive. I get a call; the haffies are still sick and can’t be released, BUT there is another pony who would like to come to our sanctuary. Can we take her in? So my trailer arrival is with three horses! The grey finally arrives, fantastic and beautiful, and lets me know how annoyed she is at being kept waiting; the palimino is a dream, and the new pony is actually pretty wonderful, full personality, friendly and engaging, despite being pretty banged up, and with the worst haircut in the world.

So care for these three begins and photos posted. How fun to share with people who care about them. They are all coughing and seem ‘off’, but hopefully it’s nothing serious. Good food, grain and peace begin to take an effect. Introductions have to happen bit by bit and I am getting used to going to the barn down the street. It’s a neighbors barn, but has sat empty for a year, and when I called them up, they were super nice and let me use it for q/t. How I would manage without this support I don’t know.

During this week we welcome another horse; Benji, the skinniest Belgian I have ever seen. I met him at the unadilla auction house, where he had sold before I arrived to the kill buyer, for a pittance. He was probably destined for zoo food he was so thin. I am there without trailer or cash, but figured I could solve that if he would sell the horse. Happy news, another kind soul had stepped in just before me, and she had a trailer. Off he went and his worst night turned into his best. By the next day, the girl and I were in discussion to have him more to the farm when serendipity played a part, and a new FB friend contacted me about,…a Belgian! A match was made, and Ben came here for a two week layover. His personality is all that I remember from that dark night and he is a pleasure to have around and to watch as he comes back to life.

Another week passes, and again I am expecting that trailer of rescue horses. During this week our rescue community has suffered more then the usual losses; aside from the two broodmares and three babies, there have been two deaths from illness, one stroke, and one horrific highway accident that claimed the life of a beautiful percheron mare. It’s tense and sad.

The haffies are supposed to ship, it’s now two weeks later. Another call, might we take another horse? This time it’s a palimino mare, just brought in, scared and shivering in the dark, with no winter coat. Brought from who knows where? Another beautiful horse in the wrong place at the wrong time, who needs sanctuary with us. The trailer is late, driving through dark and rain. And finally the haffies are now here. They are sick still, so today I will swab for infection, so I can get the gang well. And I know that our new FB fans, swelled now to nearly 600, will be there for us, asking questions, offering advice, and generally giving a damn. Can’t tell you how huge that is….

The Tournament of Roses has its Rose Parade. Macy’s has its Thanksgivings Day Parade. The People’s Republic of China has its National Day Parade. However these meager festivities happen but once a year. Here at Rosemary Farm, we have a parade everyday. In fact many times a day. Just about anytime you go somewhere around the farm becomes a parade. With 45 very domesticated animals here it is hard not to look back and see a flock of chickens, a pack of dogs (with a few cats) or a herd of horses keeping in step with you. It’s like being at the front of a conga line at Auntie Hannah’s Purim Pageant.

Walking grain down the hill to the horses is a sure way to start a parade. The chickens love the scraps left by the horses, and seven or eight are bound to follow you, clucking and cackling as they waddle their way down the hill in formation. A dog or two is sure to wag in, bringing up the rear.

Human participation is not always necessary for parades at Rosemary Farm. Letting the dogs out is always a spectacle as the three canines bound across the party field usually followed by a cat or two; and frequently unintentionally led by a squawking chicken or two.

And then there are the times we watch from the window at the surprising sight of a band of horses, who have started their own parade down the middle of Roses Brook Road. Casper has taken to being the Grand Marshall of those parades. In perfect disposition they gallantly trot the road one in front of the other.  Where they are going is not important – it never is in a parade, the joy is in the act of getting there.

Indoor parades are also regularly scheduled in the farm house; person, dog, dog, cat, dog, cat, person – and in the library the bunnies join the fray.  The morning parade goes down the stairs to the backdoor.  The food parade is around the kitchen into cold storage and out again (that one is regularly scheduled twice a day.)  And then the evening parade back up the stairs. Of course, there are several bathroom parades throughout the day but we tend to discourage those.

The festivities NEVER END here at Rosemary Farm.  At least it’s never boring, and you’re never alone!

	As I put up the "Newest Arrivals" page tonight, I felt I needed to add this postscript to my post "In Memory of…".
			Just two months after the death of Tigress, her friend of thirteen years, Nikki, our other beloved cat was diagnosed with feline mammary cancer. She underwent surgery, but it was a very aggressive cancer, and within four weeks, Nikki laid down in my lap and took her final journey over the rainbow bridge to be with Tigress. It has been hard losing two such wonderful creatures and long time companions so close together.
	But the joy they brought us through the years will not be forgotten. Their memories live on in each and every new arrival that’s comes to share in our life and times at Rosemary Farm.