LANGUAGE WARNING; Please don’t read if you have a problem with any of the following words; balls, testicles, penis, gelding, cryptorchids (crypt), stem, cord, stud, stallion, or bloody mess.

Our boy Noah has provided much medical mystery. Arriving thin and sickly out of the kill pens in September of 2010, Noah was guessed to be a 10 month old tb cross colt. We did not know if he was gelded, but he had what felt to be a surgical scar already underneath. It was possible he was older, small and gelded early, and we certainly hoped that was the case, as we nursed him back to health.

From the start Noah was very pleasant, gentle and sweet, not a trace of stud issues. He grew and got healthy and big, and by the summer of 2011, 8 months later, Noah had popped out a ball. It was just one, but that was enough to admit Noah into the stud band, our small band of rowdy boys on the very of stallion-hood (which they would never reach, but why spoil that summer for them?). As Noah romped and played, building strength and muscle, so did his solo junk, into a ball of prodigious size. But no other, just one to signify our little yearlings’ cross into manhood.

One by one, the studs were taken from the play field, painlessly drugged, cut and transformed into geldings. In fairness I don’t think they know what they were missing. We waited as long as possible for Noah to produce a pair.By early fall, we were anxious to have the last of our boys gelded, so they could re-join the herd for winter. What to do about Noah? Another vet discussion ensued. As politicians well know, one cannot prove a negative. IF Noah had been partially gelded earlier in life, as evidence indicated, he didn’t have a second one ti give us. The only way to find out was to remove the one, and then test him later. We needed to finish the job. A partial gelding is a terrible crime to commit on both a horse and it’s future owner, and we did not want to be guilty of the same thing. But if he only had the one ball left to give us, what else could we do?

The operation was set, and Noah went down and surrendered the banner of his manhood gracefully. Surgery revealed a suspect stump where the other testicle ought to be, adding to the likelihood of a previous gelding. To be safe, we all agreed that Noah would not leave Rosemary Farm until we knew for sure whether he was fully gelded. The plan was to give him a few months and then perform a blood test, called a ‘crypt’ test, to see if he still had any testosterone; if he did, then he had a retained testicle somewhere inside, which would require expensive abdominal surgery. If no testosterone, then we got the final ball. A short mild winter passed peacefully, Noah playing a lot with his buddy Picasso, enthusiastic wrestling matches where the two would drop on their knees to try and flip the other horse over. No other colt would tolerate the amount of silliness that those two continued. And with early spring 2012, Noah still acting like a gentle silly kid, we began to schedule the crypt test.

Just in the past week, as I watched Noah playing, I sensed a shift in his energy, something more ‘intent’, even ‘studly’ if you will. I began to worry that a crypt surgery might be imminent in our future. I watched him snoozing in the sun, fully engorged and ‘larger’ then a small gelding should be, and I remembered hearing that studs continued to grow in manhood. More worried then ever, I watched as Noah awoke, and dropped for a roll in the dirt. Wait a minute; What was that HUGE lump? Carried high, sort of hidden, straight back from his penis?
It was actually in such an odd spot that after I checked Noah, I went around and felt up a bunch of willing geldings, to be sure there wasn’t something about male horse anatomy that I had missed. Nope.
Noah had secretly dropped his second ball. At three years old.

Vet was called immediately, and the second was neatly dispatched yesterday, going the way of the first. He never did get to fully enjoy their benefits anyway. I suspect that his extra rowdy behavior was an off-shoot of energy, and he had actually chipped his two lower teeth at some point, which will need to be watched. Because of those chips, I looked and found cuts on his tongue, which explains why Picasso has been turning pink around his neck. We filed down those points while Noah peacefully snored off the anesthesia.

Our best guess now is that there might have been an exploratory surgery to attempt an early gelding; what else would explain the surgical scar just there, on a colt that ended up in a kill lot? The mystery will never be revealed. What we do know now, for sure, is that our boy is fully gelded…AND that boy colts can take a long, long time to grow up.

Slaughter proponents imagine that it is a solution for the leagues of homeless horses; that all of the thin, old, and damaged ex-show horses, racers, and backyard pets can be humanely and efficiently disposed of in this manner. This simply isn’t true.

All horses are NOT wanted by slaughter.

If you visit an auction, you will see many horses that are declared ‘no value’, or sold for pennies, NOT to slaughter. The very thin, the very damaged, any older white horse, and many studs, will not be admitted onto the trucks going to kill (oh yes, and blind horses, or mares who are imminent in labor are not legally supposed to ship). It is too much trouble for them and not enough financial gain. From an economic perspective, I understand their decisions. So who takes all of these most destitute horses? What is their solution?

Our last SIX auction saves had no answer at all for them, besides us. Ivy, $10 (unwanted by slaughter because she was small and white, and white horses have a predisposition to melanoma), the two appy colts, $10 each (way too small and thin to bother slaughtering), Oberon, $35 (way too thin and lame to bother slaughtering, plus he is grey), the new morgan colt $20 (too small and a stud, so trouble on the truck, not worth the bother), and Razzle, $1 (showing neurological issues which may ‘taint’ a truck, assuming she survived the ride standing). These horses were not ‘helped’ by a pro-slaughter country.

Slaughter is NOT a solution for the homeless horses. Reducing breeding, supporting struggling owners, care education, reduced gelding programs, and reduced euthanasia costs, are the answers, which all seem to fall under the Humane Society’s job. Instead of wasting money building slaughter plants for horses that cannot safely be consumed anyway, how about giving that money to the US Humane Societies, to support horse owners?

Slaughter is leaving behind a huge swath of horses that even they don’t want. Little efforts like ours are not enough to help them all.

A little rant;
In my heart of hearts, each horse here is ‘mine’. They are treated like the family they are. They do not need to prep for any future, who knows if there is a future? The future is now. They do not have to leave. We cannot save them all, but the ones we save, we do so as fully as possible.
Adoption is not our goal, but simply one possible option, if it serves the horse.
Let me repeat this; Adoption is Not Our Goal.
When inevitably a horse does leave, either to a new family or to their maker, I will be the one who decides. I do not carry that lightly, but I carry it. I decide this with the help of our professional team of equine vets, trainers, trimmers who are here several times a week. I will also decide by asking the horse.
If you choose to support us, that is what you are supporting.
Our horses do not need to be ridable or adoptable, they do not need to prepare for a home. They are home.

We are asked a lot, especially at auction, why we don’t ‘save’ the ones that are ‘most adoptable’? The ones most likely to have a future? The answer is complicated.
First, the ‘kill buyers’ who are collecting horses at auction are actually horse dealers; they sell to slaughter houses, but they also re-sell heavily, via internet sales, private buyers, to rescues, or at another auction. There is a price point where we know that the horse is going to be flipped, and there are breeds that are very popular that will be flipped. So a sale at an auction to a KB is not an automatic death sentence, certainly for the most ‘salable’ horses.
Second, many (most) of our horses are owner surrenders; we can choose to say ‘no’ to some, and we do sometimes, but we cannot choose really what comes along, what is in need.

Also, at auction, is the human variable. All of these small rescue efforts (we are one of many) are run by a person, with a heart and with skills. Most of us walk the auction horses early, and make a list of those that move our hearts. Horses that we think will sell to kill that we think we could help. I call this my short list. During the auction, I wait for those horses to come onto the floor. In the process, other horses sell to kill. We cannot save them all. So we choose. I choose those that move me, those that I ‘could’ own for life, because I very well may! On occasion, my ‘short list’ sells entirely to private homes, and I leave empty handed. On other nights, like the night Jed was there, we bought three horses because well, we couldn’t let Dusty sell to kill, and no one wanted Jed, and Melody had become a new friend and could not go to kill for $25. That’s just rude. So of that night, for example, Dusty was adopted, Jed graced our lives for 9 months before passing, and Melody, the ‘least adoptable’ pony, welcomes me with a beautiful whinny in the mornings that warms my heart. I think I got the most out of that deal.
So you see that choosing ‘the most adoptable’ isn’t such a straight and narrow goal!

Lastly then, at auction, one is faced with four general categories of horses; the babies who haven’t even begun a life yet, the trained horses who need something fixed, the untrained feral adults, and the real abuse cases; older trained and wrecked horses that served ‘man’ and have been dumped. Which category would you think is ‘most deserving’ of being saved? See how impossible it becomes, standing amongst a sea of horses, trying to pluck one or two? Out of this anguish, those of us who return again and again find our own personal reasoning, and I strongly believe that no one can challenge anothers’ decisions in that impossible scenario.

The stifle.
“Attached the rads from today. Having a chance to look at them in HD showed me even more problems which ARE within the joint, as well as some others. He does have degenerative joint disease, as well as some cystic lesions within the tibia. The ones he has ‘tend’ to go along with damage to the meniscus and its associated ligaments. I still have to assert that the only reason I can think of to have such a dramatic and unfortunate rad would be that he suffered a very bad blunt trauma injury suck as a kick to the patella. The aftermath is most consistent with fracture to, and severe infection of, the patella. Likely there would have been a draining wound and then probably a chronic draining tract once the infection was sealed under the skin. All ignored evidently. Its the worst aftermath of a septic bone I have seen in a horse…probably because of lack of treatment. Worst part is it would have been excrutiatingly painful….think weeks of non weight bearing lameness. May be where the front foot issue started from having to compensate…who knows….”

The hooves.
Oberon’s right front hoof x-ray;
the “dot” on top, and the “pin” below are MARKERS.
What should NOT be present is that broken off tip of bone inside his hoof. The only reasonable explanation for such a break is that Oberon foundered, the coffin bone pieced through the bottom of the frog, and broke upwards as he walked on exposed bone. Left unattended, the foot recovered somewhat, despite unreal levels of pain.

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When you arrived, you were quiet, obedient. I didn’t realize you were sleeping, that you had given up, that you were so near death. Your thin, thin body, covered in rainrot and dirt, was ready to quit. At auction, they said you were 28 and that your owner had died. It turns out you are closer to just 15, and your care stopped long before that owner perished. You have been in pain and need for a long time.
And now you are here at Rosemary Farm. We began feeding you, and awakened you. But it was not a pleasant awakening, it was as if to a nightmare. You came alive in pain and with anger. You began greeting me in the morning with a high piercing whinny, full of sorrow, need, and pain. You began biting sometimes, kicking sometimes, you began fighting back. Now, with these images telling a tale that you cannot speak, I think I understand a bit better. Just a bit. I will never truly be able to feel the pain that you have endured, as you were left to live, without care. But I understand how long you were left like that, left with gasping wounds and no care. Like most living things, you aren’t complicated. You want to live. You want the company of your species; you want to enjoy food, and sunlight on your back, and running in green fields. Your desire to live is no less then any human reading this words.
I am not sure how much of that I will be able to give you now, you have been so broken. But we will start with getting rid of some of your pain. The food is good here, the hay fresh and plentiful. Companions over the fence are happy to make your acquaintance. The meds already seem to be helping a bit. This morning was the first time you greeted me with a silent nod, without the desperate screams. If we can lift your pain, if we can help you find a small piece of beauty again, you will be a victory. I truly hope that we can find for you, at this late date, some peace.

There is mystery surrounding each arrival.

The life of a domestic horse today is usually a journey with many stops. This tale, of a colt named Lucky, is one that doesn’t have an ending yet, a story still mid-book, awaiting your help, dear reader, to write the continuing chapters.

Chapter One; I Am Born. “Not much is known by the humans about how I began my life, but it was in the usual way around here; my mother was an appy and was owned with a small herd of other horses. I was born at night and my mom took good care of me. Supposedly I am an unusual color, and I was given a lot of attention, which I enjoyed. I liked people well enough, until they wanted to ‘ride’, a process that I learned to tolerate. There was a lot of discussion as I grew, and lots of poking of my private parts, and one day I had surgery and was very very sore. Soon after, I was sold. My new owner made much of me at first, but then seemed angry; what was the problem? I was growing, and had started to assert myself as the young leader I felt I was, but whenever this happened, I would get separated again. When people tried to hit me in the head, I started to fight back. I changed homes again. I found myself alone a lot, and that made me very unhappy. I missed my herd.”

Chapter two; The Sale. “One day last summer, as I chomped alone on late summer grass, the trailer was brought around. I had been on the trailer a lot and wondered if we were going somewhere fun. Maybe with other horses? When we pulled into the auction yard, however, I knew it was not a good place. Lots and lots of horses, all calling for friends, frightened, angry, or just standing dejected. I didn’t know any of them. I was frightened, but obedient to my owner. Maybe we would leave soon. I was taken inside and a sticker was put on my butt. I was tied alone. Many people came to look at me, pick up my feet, try and look at my teeth. After that bit had been shoved in my mouth I had never been good about my teeth and I resisted. I am pretty tho’ and so people still seemed to like me. When I was walked through a door and into a bright room, I was shocked; before me was an entire wall of humans, all staring down. I felt small and scared. Someone hopped on my back, distracting me, and kicked me to move. I did, and I did my best, being spun and walked, with humans crowding on all sides. It was so scary. A loud voice boomed overhead, and then just as suddenly, I was out another door, while I hand chalked my number. I didn’t know it, but I was sold”

Chapter Three; Rescue #1…”I don’t really know what ‘rescue’ means, but apparently I was sold to one. I was lead out of the auction house and onto another trailer, with a frightened black mare. We traveled a short distance and were unloaded in the dark, and turned out into a small field with a lot of horses. Wow the excitement! And the fear! Everywhere were teeth and hooves and squealing, and some of it was from me. There were too many to meet at once. It was a long night, but finally we all settled down, exhausted. The next day I was taken out, examined, and tacked up to ride. I can tell you that I was probably not on my best behaviour. I was so tired, so scared, I didn’t know any of the people and I didn’t understand them. But I tried, really I did. The cinch was pulled tight and someone was on my back, and a few photos were taken. I don’t think anyone enjoyed it, and I was put back soon enough, to resume the squabbles from the evening before.”

Chapter Four; The Unknown. “My time here was short-lived. Just a few days later, trailers began arriving and horses loaded up. What chaos. In the midst of it, I was showing off a bit, partly because I was just so scared. I had no horse or friend to connect with! If you can imagine yourself locked in a big room of strangers, and you don’t even speak the same language, and lots of them know each other and are glowering at you, and you are alone, you may understand how I felt that day. And I let it be known, I am not ashamed to say. I was not a ‘good horse’ that day. There was much discussion amongst the humans, and the word ‘crypt’ was put out as a question. Finally I was loaded into a trailer, alone, by a nice woman, and we drove off, leaving the remains of that collapsing rescue behind us. We drove and drove, and I could hear tearful phone conversations up front. What was to become of me now? Finally we stopped at a quiet barn, and I was lead into a big clean box stall. I did my best to walk quietly and listen, and let them know that I was grateful just to rest. And I did. The next morning, my journey continued, and we drove until we got to another farm. Another rescue. Rosemary Farm”.

Chapter Five; Rescue, again. “I unloaded obediently, and stood while the newest people cooed and made much of me. I heard that word ‘crypt’ again and ‘caution’. But I liked it here and was good and quiet and friendly. I was lead to my own small field, with a few trees and grass, and I could see other horses in other fields. This was called ‘quarantine’ but I didn’t know that then. I knew I was still alone, but at least I wasn’t in a fight and the humans were kind and quiet. So I was as well, I was on my best behaviour. This was the place that started calling me Lucky. After a week, I was moved to another larger field, which was nice, but I was depressed. I enjoyed the human’s visits, but I so wanted to be with the other horses. I called and called, but they ignored me. I don’t know why. Another person came to meet me, a very kind woman who got a glow in her eyes when she looked at me. She so wanted an appy to join her small herd. It was decided that after I was done quarantine, that I would move immediately, rather then get to know the horses here. And so I did”.

Chapter Six; A New Home? “I knew very well how to trailer, and hopped right on. The ride was just 15 minutes, and there was a small herd of three horses, waiting to greet me. I was thrilled. I was put into a round pen adjacent to them, and we began meeting and grooming over the fence. There was one large older gelding, an older mare, and a mare just my age! We were both about four years old. I really liked them and they liked me. After a few days, I was allowed to join them. There was a bit of squealing, but we all settled in fairly well. It had been awhile since I had a herd and was still learning ‘the rules’. But things went fairly well. I thought I was at home, at last. Months passed, as fall became winter. I grew lethargic, lame, irritable. I was sick. Tests determined that I had lyme, and meds began. Also my sore foot was soaked, and my owner worked very hard to care for me and restore me to health. We grew close, she and I. But as I felt better, my restlessness grew again. I didn’t like the other gelding in our space, or even in the field some days. I picked fights more and more. I wanted to keep the mares to myself. I turned on the other humans. It seemed that as the meds made me better, my temper grew worse. In fact, it wasn’t a temper at all, it was just nature at work. There were more discussions, as the horses and humans became afraid. I don’t understand ‘ownership’ or ‘contracts’ or ‘responsibility’, but I did understand the day the trailer came. Despite all of our calls to each other, and my owner crying sadly, I was taken away, and back to Rosemary Farm.”

Chapter 7; The diagnosis, the solution. “Another solitary field, beside a strange group of horses. More needles and testing. I am angry and upset, I miss my family and I don’t know any of these horses. I want to fight. I break out, and I do fight, and then I go off alone to a corner of the field. This happens a few times, and the fences are repaired stronger each time. Meanwhile, the testing is proceeding. And yes, the humans finally learn for sure what I have known all along. I am a stallion. Or half a stallion. Whoever ‘operated’ on me did a very unethical thing, they only removed part of me, to make me appear to be a gelding. While I cannot get any mares pregnant, the testosterone coursing thru my veins will make me want to try and try. What is more interesting is the reaction of the new herd around me. If any proof was needed, just look at how the others geldings and mares react. It’s obvious to them. The geldings want to fight me and the mares want to be with me. I will not know peace as a domestic horse. And people wonder why I am sad, confused, and irritable. If they only knew the heroic measures I am reaching for in order to try and get along with them, in their world”.

Chapter 8. The humans get to speak. Yes, this tale is conjecture, but it helps us to try and look at it from the horses point of view. This is not his fault. Lucky has not been very lucky up until now. Just this weekend, he broke out again, mangling a gate and cutting his own leg. Cisco and he clearly fought, and then Lucky retreated to a far end of the 15 acre field. My heart goes out to this little horse and his plight, caused by humans. It is unconscionable to partly geld a horse and sell it. The usual path for a horse like Lucky is to be sold and re-sold, as new owners discover his ‘problem’.
This is where our collective force can change this boys life. Lucky is lucky because he has all of us. Lucky needs surgery. We will not be able to adopt out this young beautiful boy until he can behave calmly in a herd setting. He is only 4, he has training, and he truly is gorgeous. We cannot continue like this together. Crypt surgery is going to cost us $1,500, plus getting him there and back, plus time in recovery. Since I doubt any rich benefactor will foot the bill, we are going to hold a raffle and try, together, to raise the needed funds.
What will chapter 9 be for this colt? And Chapter 10, and 11? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to give him the chance to live, in peace, with a close human friend?
Look for the raffle to begin tonight.

I lost my friend today.
Though we met when his body was broken, his spirit ever prevailed.
He no longer moved fast, but recalled the days he ran like the wind;
when he was king and lead the charge.
His eyes spoke proudly of a life largely lived and never complained of the wrongs that had befallen him. He was content these days to walk by the water, have a cool drink, bask in the sun. In the morning he greeted me and we walked together. In the evening he waited for me and we walked together. And in our time together he conferred upon me his friendship and forever that will be.

My last photo of my good friend