A word about Attachment;
As I haltered and walked Bo up the path and to the gate, he was curious. Gracie followed close behind. As I took him through the gate, he was more attentive, and Gracie was blocked from following. As we moved farther away, in front of the barn and towards the trailer, he nickered back. Gracie, now concerned, considered how to go through, under, or over the fencing, but could not, so she called instead. And called, as Bo and I went to the trailer. He did not want to leave. I’m not saying we are ‘all that’, but we have been home to him, and trailers have never meant anything good to Bo. We don’t know how many homes he has left, but now there is one more. Bo hesitated, and then obediently loaded, but was shaking. We could both hear Gracie calling. While I feel that this move is a great chance for Bo to get more concentrated care, it saddens me. Horses form such strong bonds. Their hearts feel the same sorrow, fear and loneliness of ours. And the same LOVE. I so wish that other people, horse caretakers, would see this. So that fewer hearts might ache….

Meet Cheetah.

Cheetah was an appy gelding of unimpressive height, build and appearance. He did boast a loud coat that one either loved or hated. His wispy mane was usually trimmed back. Cheetah was a trail horse, considered “bombproof”. Cheetah lived and worked at a riding stables, where he could be hired out by the hour for trail rides through the network of property owned by the stables. Cheetah was probably there a long, long time.

Here’s a photo of Cheetah with a young girl riding him….

The girl’s mother is nearby, and you can see how carefully the ride is beginning. This was the only horse this girl ever rode at the the stables, where she came every other Sunday. She loved Cheetah, and as they grew familiar with each other, they would race through the woods, knowing each turn in the path. There was another girl who always rode a palomino mare, and the four were found together, for years. After a time, money became tight, and the girl went on to other interests, as happens with young girls. She finished high school, then college, traveled to Europe, moved to New York, and had a career.
But the girl never forgot her friend. Many days and nights she remembered the appy with tears in her eyes and love in her heart. Even though there were no longer any actual horses in her life, they remained in her blood. If ever near a stable, she would stop in, and if hiring a horse for an hour was possible, she did. No horse was ever the same as Cheetah, and there was no relationship to enjoy, but at least it was a HORSE. Dreams have a way of stubbornly finding a way to ‘yop’. Eventually this young girl, as an adult, found a way back to her dream. She walked away from the big city and her career, and founded Rosemary Farm.
Yes, this Rosemary Farm.
So how can I feel badly about riding stables?
But Cheetah might have. Cheetah may have been very unhappy there. I don’t know. I don’t know what his turnout was like during the week, or his care or food, and I don’t know what became of him. I know he worked hard on weekends, but as my parents would say, they worked hard all week! I knew enough to book Cheetah for his second hour each morning, because he wasn’t tired out like he was later in the day, and I could extend my time with him into his one hour break, walking and brushing him. I didn’t know anyone who owned horses where I grew up, so this stable was my only access to the creature from my dreams. Cheetah, for one hour each week, was ‘my’ horse. Cheetah allowed me to ride him, walk him, groom him after our lesson..Cheetah allowed my dream to grow. As it is said, one cannot love what one does not understand. As a child, Cheetah provided me with understanding. As an adult, I now wonder if it was worth it for him. As a hack horse, his life might not have been easy, but I have never forgotten him. I still weep with love when I see his face. And gratitude.

“You look out into the blackened night, where the fields are, and cast a single word onto the moving air, “HORSES!”. It’s a summons, a wish, and a prayer all rolled into one, and it floats out, casting for a dream. Silence. Then the ground whispers, and the drumming begins, increasing in tempo and in force, as your heart quickens in time. Rushing waves in the air precede the band and suddenly in full glory, snorting stamping and glowing, they are around you, 10,000 lbs of horseflesh and spirit….your band, not your possessions but your tribe, and the greet you as one of theirs.”

(originally posted on FB 12/13/11, 8 am)…
I am not an animal rescuer. I am just like you. I am a person going along life, drawn towards the things that make me happy. But I stumbled upon a horse who needed help. And another. And another. I did not say no. I helped. And then continued to help,. And I won’t stop until my life’s blood has run it’s course, which, to be honest, is increasing it’s flow with the effort. I do not identify myself as an animal rescuer, because my dearest wish is that the long line of creatures needing my help would become shorter and shorter, so that my days could end in peace with my herd.
I am a living being, a member of this planet, and my best gift is to give back all of myself.

Started writing a long blog about history and karma but would rather cut to the chase. I don’t feel like a writer today, just a sad horse owner. Apollo is very sick. He likely has an IBD, which is generally considered fatal. We are learning what we can and exploring possible drugs, but to be honest, he looks like shit. His body looked pretty good for awhile in the summer, not ideal but improving. But since then, he peaked and has declined. His gut is huge, and increasing. He has not developed muscle in his chest and butt. He developed bad rain rot in the fall, the only one in the herd to get it like that. I initially blamed myself for his condition; that I hadn’t done a good enough job on care, or worming or exercise. That I was failing him. Now I wish that were the case.
To try and address his condition, Apollo was wormed again thoroughly and re-checked and is clean of parasites. His skin was treated. He gets extra nutrients. He lives with an active band that all look muscled, except for him. His mane and tail have never started to come in well. By comparison to his half-sister, he is in trouble. His belly continues to grow. I guess I was hoping that he was just more slow to come around, that he would be ok. But if there aren’t worms, or a baby in that big belly, what is there? His exam yesterday answered a few questions.
Our vet performed both a pelvic exam and an ultrasound, to isolate where Apollo’s problems are. Apparently water retention would have been a preferred problem, but Apollo, it appears, has an IBD>, or Inflamed Bowel Disease. Additional blood work is being done to confirm this. There are different versions of these, but basically (my simplistic understanding) is that his body cannot move food along well. It’s all sort of sitting there. And he can’t absorb nutrients well. These issues are quite serious. His lack of absorption explains the lack of muscle and condition. There is one very expensive drug that we can try and see if it helps him, I think it will run about $7 a day. It is worth a try to see if it makes a difference. The immediate concern for him is that he will rupture. More likely, he will begin to feel worse, stand off, begin to not eat. Colic is a concern for horses with this condition. So far he seems relatively comfortable and he is happy with his herd. Since Apollo has never known health, he probably doesn’t even know how sick he is. He is only 4. He has become such a sweet sweet colt in his time here. Starved his entire short life, a life that will not be much longer. That is heartbreaking.
I didn’t feel as connected to Apollo until he left briefly this summer. The experience of being taught to trailer, and going to a new place, showed me how much he trusted me and liked me. Like many here, he is quiet and not always ‘demonstrative’; after all, he is a horse, not a dog. But I was proud that he trusted me, looked to me for guidance and my love for him grew in return.
Honestly I don’t know if this is good karma or bad karma. He is here now, he is home. The futures I had imagined for him must be re-written. He is my horse and he will be my horse now until he dies. At least I can do that for him.

Welcome our new Christmas Colts, Comet and Blitzen!
December 22, and the car is packed and ready to travel 6 hours to my sisters for the holidays. But before I hit the highway, I have a stop to make, at the hospital where ‘Mini B’ is recovering from surgery. He is doing really well, but we are new to each other, so I spent about an hour with him in his stall, making friends. Now it’s getting late, about 4pm when I am on the road, and now I am passing by the exit where the regular horse auction is held. On the very night it’s being held. Two hours before a sale begins. I give myself all of the reasons I should not stop; we are full at home, I am not even headed home, money is tight, medical expenses are up, winter is beginning, etc, etc, etc. But I stop. Just to use the bathroom. And take a peek.
I head inside and straight to the horses. The first pen I look into holds a pair of weanling colts, baby brothers. Shaking and staying away from the gate, they are thin, neglected and unloved, and only about 6 months old. They are covered in rain rot, and their long little hoofs show the lack of either trimming or a place to exercise. Halter marks are smashed in their faces but were removed. They are covered in dried poo. They are adorable.
I get some hay from a nearby trough, and bring it to them. The smaller of the two comes forward, and his taller shy brother tentatively steps up behind. They are hungry. I hold the hay for them, and after they start chewing, I gently pet the head of the one nearest me. He curls a little, leaning into the touch. Of course I am besotted. I decide I will wait, and watch the auction, and make sure they don’t sell to the kill buyers.
There aren’t a lot of horses at auction, but not a lot of buyers either. I am proud to share that there were three other rescues present, so I am not alone, and the horses here tonight are not alone. There is a third colt, also about six months, in another pen, and when the auction begins, another rescue steps up for him. I wait and watch; Our pair doesn’t come onto the floor until the end of the sale. They are announced as brothers, and we all watch and listen as the opening bid drops and drops. I wait. If a private home wants them, I won’t bid. The auctioneer has lowered the opening to $10, and the floor is quiet, everyone watches for any bid. Even the kill buyers aren’t interested in the tiny thin pair, so what will happen to them? I raise my card, before he declares them ‘no value’ and they leave the floor. “Bid!” and we are in…The auctioneer searches the crowd for anyone else, even pointing at a few folks, but no one else wants the skinny colts. They are ours, for $10 each. I am thrilled.
Our regular hauler agrees to hold them for me for a few days, since I really, really need to be in Maryland! I get a halter from my car, and find the boys again backstage, now my boys. I enter their pen quietly, they are so scared. Gently I sidle up, and slip the halter on the smaller colt, and begin to lead them out. Or I try to; they don’t know how to lead, and the auction guys want to go home. But they are patient with me, and one gets behind and just clucks to move them along, which is very gentle for them. I walk the babies thru and out, into the waiting trailer. My hauler reassures me that he will put them in a stall and feed them well until I return, and I believe him. He was so good and gentle with Jed.
Finally I get back on the road, hours and hours late. But my heart is full and happy. By 11 pm on the black highway, I give in and stop at a hotel. Eight hours later I am driving again, and soon with my human family. Part of my brain is back with the new colts! The holiday passes quickly, and I rush home, awaiting the christmas colts arrival at the farm. And then they arrive, just as thin and full of promise as I remember. They are beginning a new life, as we work to get them to health and happiness. We have named them Comet and Blitzen. Comet is taller, with a beautiful white patterning and a partial blue eye. Blitzen (which means ‘lightning’) is smaller, more friendly and feisty, and is also being called Zip for his spirited frolicking within his first hour here.
This is what we do. I am so happy that I stopped. It was the best christmas present one could ask for.

Warm for December, scattered horses finding bits of hay across the field, lazy.
One filly is standing much farther off then the others; Jojo. Her back is turned, all fuzzy and chunky now, facing the brook. I wander quietly over to see what has captured her attention so fully. Stopping about 10 feet beside her, I crouch down to share. Aggie Jo is watching ice. Ice and snow chunks actually, as they float by, downstream. She is mesmerized. The snowy chunks are freeing themselves from the banks, breaking off, tumbling slowly in the current, shedding bits of themselves in beautiful patterns. Density changing, white becoming translucent, all patterns and bobbles and fluidity in a downstream dance. She finds one just coming into view, and follows it, as it passes us and continues by the rocks and tiny whitewaters, until it disappears in the dark waters. Then she looks at me, to share, and I smile. We look for another, and play this little game for awhile, watching ice float by, ‘watching the wheels go round and round’… I point out the tiny frozen waterfall cutting down the steep bank across from us, and she follows my gaze. I partly stand, to step forward to the snowy edge of the bubbling water. Jo comes with me, as I pick up a chunk of the ice that we sniff and examine. Then she steps to the waters edge and lowers her head, taking a long cool drink, while I stand by. I use my hand to slurp a bit, sharing. We’re friends, she and I. I understand the beauty she sees.

Sunset is like 4:30 pm in the winter, so chores are usually finished in the dark (persistent procrastination is the topic of another blog, or will be whenever I get around to it). Chores are amusing here; Hay is stashed in all kinds of barns and rooms in barns, connected via obscure pathways, staircases, and shortcuts. Hey, we’re making do with what we have!

As I headed out last night for the lower barn, I debated going the long way and turning on the lower barn lights first, or just taking a flashlight, and the shortcut, down to the lower hay stash, to throw some out to the hordes below. I opted for the latter, as the shorter path (read ‘lazy’) and entered the barn above, from the side.

It’s a short trip through the first room, which used to be very scary before I knew each creak and object; and I stepped into a hole in the wall and onto a lowered ladder with confidence. This leads to the old milking parlor, an unstable floor but useful for packing with hay, as long as one knows where to step. I am brave now! I skipped halfway down before a heard a noise. Standing on what I realize is a very rickety ladder, surrounded by stacks of hay and narrow aisles, I am aware that I am not alone. All those little hairs stand up on my neck. Something is there. Some mysterious huge creature is breathing very close in front of me. Or was breathing, until hearing me, and we both paused, mid-inhale, and waited. And that second became very very long, and every Stephen King story flooded back, and every awareness of being a foolish girl standing alone in a decrepit barn floods your cells. OH, I knew this was a huge mistake. I mean, how long would it take for someone to even find my dead eaten body, out here in nowhere? What was I doing up here in the country anyway? How foolish was I, that now I had caused my own demise at the hands of some scary creature now hiding in the hay stacks?

My heart skipped. Followed by a small snort; was that a horses’ warning sound? A small shuffling…of a hoof? The smell of black hide. And the invisible creature just in front of me took form. “MOLLY?!?”I say, with hope…It was Molly. We both sighed with palpable relief. I am such a wuss.

Molly and Finn had broken into the hay loft, aka the ‘old milking parlor’, and wedged themselves in the stacks for an all you can eat buffet, in an area that they should not have been able to fit. “Didn’t you have enough hay outside Molly?”. Apparently not, she snuffled happily in my direction. Head to head, they could not exit easily or quickly, but stood there pigging out. Fortunate that we all knew each other, and recognized each other, before any of us three bolted. It took a minute to get to the door (around Finnys giant tushie) and get it open again, sufficient to back Finn out, then get Molly to follow. All in the dark. They were amiable enough, too stuffed to care much and just glad I hadn’t been a lion coming down the ladder to eat them. I secured the gate and added another 2 x 4 across the opening. We proceeded to join the herd without incident, altho’ when I was leaving, my heart still a little light, Molly did have a bit of a pout on her pretty perchie face. Lead mares, I swear.

Most of the horses here arrive with scars. Either seen or unseen, and usually both. “Normal” behaviour isn’t guaranteed here at all; what many horse owners would consider commonplace are instead, hard won victories. Months of food, rest, and quiet, easy handling are applied, to slowly produce change.

Today I’m thinking of Sable. She has been here just over a year now, a former polo horse dumped by a university, after a lifetime of being a professional athlete. Sable had been passed around a lot, living the life of a professional sport horse, a high end car. Until she wouldn’t play anymore. Deemed damaged and dangerous, she was sold at auction to slaughter; then retrieved and brought here. I was warned that she was unsound and ‘would hurt me’ if I tried to ever ride her, and that she could only be handled by experienced horse people. Of course I was frightened, but I wasn’t going to say no when we had the chance to welcome her. We said yes. I could see the raw power in this mare when she walked into our barn at nearly midnight one night. Her roached mane added to her intimidating air. She was a powerhouse, not to be trifled with. But quiet and professional about it all.

Sable began here like many do, separated at first to insure a clean bill of health, and also to give us a little time to get to know each other. I found her to be very polite, clearly handled extensively, quiet and obedient. But calm waters barely masked the turmoil inside her soul. I did not push it, kept things very quiet and clear. Once she was deemed healthly, Sable and the polo gelding she arrived with, Pucara, were released to join the herd. Their ability to control their bodies gave them an edge over other horses, so they had no trouble in the field. I did discover quickly that once ‘free’, Sable was not ‘caught’ easily. Not a huge issue for me, since the herd teaches the new ones. The lead mare of that herd, Violet, and I, have a strong bond; newcomers watch, sometimes in awe, as our horses fight FOR attention from the humans, rather then run away. Sable was happy to hang back and no pressure was put on her.
She got used to the routine here; her mane began to grow.

By winter, Sable was beginning to miss some of her old routines, like blanketing. Ideally our horses aren’t blanketed, but given shelter instead. But with new ones, ones unaccustomed to this lifestyle, we strike a balance. Sable was granted a stall, and/or a blanket, as she needed it. These things were familiar to her and she always handled easily. Professionally. That was her relationship with humans.

We won’t even try to ride a horse here that might not be physically up to it. In our attempt to get Sable sound, we brought in vets to x-ray her fetlocks, to try and confirm the diagnosis’ that she arrived with. No damage was found. We also had Sable’s teeth done, we had a chiropractor examine her back. She was deemed sound. Sable does, however, have numerous ‘dents’ in her body, especially her neck. Only the two polo ponies here have these kind of injuries, and it’s reasonable to guess they are the result of mallets. Mallets hitting very hard into horseflesh. Which may also explain Sable’s negative reaction to the idea of being ridden. A saddle appearing could instantly raise her stress level; her head, her eyes, her neck, her back, all tense, upset, ready for flight. I can’t say if she would have ‘hurt me’ because I try and not pick fights with my horses. But now that Sable was cleared for riding physically, the journey back was in her mind, and in our interaction.

As I mentioned, Sable has been here for a year. During that year, we have made progress in little ways. Sable has learned to hang out at liberty in the aisle while I do chores (interacting loose, at liberty, was HUGE for her; “what, no halter?!?”). Sable has learned that she can carry the saddle while eating grain, and nothing bad happens. Sable has learned that brushing can feel nice and doesn’t mean she is going to be ridden (well basically that any human interaction does not mean being ridden). Sable has learned that she doesn’t have to hold her breath waiting for the gear to be pulled out. Sable has learned to nicker for grain, a deep throaty nicker. And Sable even learned to paw at the stall door in anticipation of treats or petting (thanks Violet).

One thing that Sable hadn’t learned was tolerating anyone on a mounting block near her. That crossed the line for her. I have even pushed it a bit, hoping to ‘show’ her that it wouldn’t hurt. With Dan at her head, we asked her to stand and let me lay across her; I swear, I felt an entire world of volcano under my stomach. I got off, seeking a quiet beat to release her but didn’t really get it. So that hasn’t been attempted again. She could not be any more clear about this. Anytime even a bucket is placed beside her and a foot goes on it, she leaves.

Until today. It was a bright sunny, cold morning, and Sable joined me in the aisle while I was cleaning up. I gave her some grain and some hay and brushed her out. Then decided to try the bucket again, with the brush in hand. My focus was just on brushing, and Sable was at liberty, free to leave if she chose. I set the bucket down and kept brushing. I stepped up, took a beat, and kept brushing. I even dared the thought (which she can hear), “Sable, I’m up here and you’re ok!”, and she was. She watched me but kept eating her hay. I even put a tiny bit of weight with my palms, and brushed again. SHE DID NOT CHOOSE TO LEAVE. This probably can’t be fully appreciated without going through nearly a year of her walking away. She didn’t leave, and I brushed her. I did this for about three minutes, then stopped. Got the bucket, and moved away. Elated.

Now I know that most of you horse owners expect to be able to do this. You and your horses are luckier then you know. This isn’t something we can all take for granted. You don’t own horses that were never loved, treated as machines, and then dumped. As Sable was. It’s taking awhile for Sable to form a relationship, or to even form the concept of relationship, and to trust. To begin to re-think what humans are. I am so happy that she will consider it. We will continue to work on it together. And her mane, her long glossy black mane, continues to grow.

When Midnight arrived here about a year ago, he ran away.
Clever, he waited until he was off lead and I was closing the gate to scoot out, run up the hill, and turn to look back and say goodbye. “Thank you” he said, ‘you’re very nice, but I need to go home’. And he tried. For three long days, we searched the mountainside and drove the roads. I found another lost horse, not ours. I was sick about him. Finally he was spied in a field, not too far away, and brought back to RF. He was depressed to have lost his herd and his home, but they didn’t want him anymore. At 20 years old and no longer able to work as a trail horse, he had been given away. That knowledge weighed on the wise old horse. It took a very long time for him to adjust, to make friends, and to let us in emotionally. This is why we decided to not adopt him out. He did not try to run away again.

Midnight found friends and has had many medical issues, the subject of other writings. He seemed to struggle with the idea of getting old, and only recently has he seemed at peace with being the wise old horse, and enjoying being pampered. He finally started to nicker for grain, and feel confident that he would be answered. Despite ‘not being able to be ridden’, Midnight has become an important member of our family.

But,in the past month, Midnight has fallen twice while turned out in the shared pasture, and not been able to get up. The first time, we found him late at night, in the rain, beyond our fenced area. Someone (Aggie likely) had torn down the temp electric over in our neighbors field, where the horses graze sometimes. Midnight had wandered alone into an untrenched boggy area, and fallen. For hours he lay, partially submerged in mud and freezing water, until we found him. I was sure he was done, and indeed he was dying. Amidst our tears and panic, we did two useful things; I called the vet and Robert got the tractor and new sling. While waiting for Dr. Fish, we shoved horse blankets under Midnights head and over his body. I cradled him and told him he could leave. I pulled out a pocket knife and cut off part of his mane. I tried in vain to warm him.
When he struggled at one point, we got the sling under his body. After rescuing Molly two years ago, this was somewhat familiar. Using the tractor and the sling we dragged Midnight to slightly higher ground just 12 feet away. Midnight looked like he wanted to get up, in his eyes, but his body could not. Cue the vet, arriving accompanied at this late Sunday hour by her hubbie, searching the back fields to find us. She checked Midnight’s vitals out, and listened as I shared that I thought he was done. Then she said, “I have seen them get up when they were worse”. To my dumbfounded expression, she explained that she would give an injection of steroids, and together we would flip him and see if we could get him up. And that is exactly what happened. Together we flipped the mud-covered horse in the dark and helped him up, slipping ourselves in the muddy bog. But as Midnight teetered to his feet, and his frozen painful legs, he staggered back towards the deeper muck. Robert tackled his neck, shouting “NO, Midnight”, and the two of the swayed together, and then went splashing down. If you can imagine the black night, the freezing water in all of our boots and clothes and the exhaustion that we all felt, you will have a small idea of the desperation that set in. But we tried again; we re-tied the ropes and flipped him again, and got Midnight to sitting position. We asked him to wait, and fed him more grain. When he stood again, this time more slowly, he stayed up.
That night he was walked back to his stall, and out of his death, blanketed and given all sorts of meds to ward anything off, more grain, hugs, basically whatever the horse wanted. The vet’s praises were sung. And Midnight, within two days, seemed no worse for wear (except for that chunk of mane I had chopped off).

It’s a few weeks later. Midnight has been staying out again, in the last warm fall evenings, with the herd. He quite enjoys the colts, he can boss them around and grazes with them. One morning during chores, it’s clear something was really wrong at the barn below. The herds were quiet, all facing inward in a loose concentric circle around something, waiting. I am immediately reminded of the beautiful photo that Proud Spirit Horse Sanctuary published, after their lead mare had died. I realized I was looking at a death watch. In the center was Midnight; very close to the barn now, in an area that was hardly slippery at all. Down and can’t get up. He had been there for hours but was now being warmed by the sunrise. He wasn’t dead, and he looked into my face like ‘can ya get me outta here?’. He simply couldn’t get up himself. Feeling like experts, we tied the ankle ropes on him, and we flipped him, and he stood. We led him again inside, blanketed and grained, to warm up. This was a week ago. He was very sore for a few days, but has regained his bounce, his nicker, his sense of humor. He wants to be out but is being strictly locked up at night now. The toll on ones heart is just tremendous, and aside from sparing myself another awful shock, I really don’t want him to die like that, freezing to death on the ground. But he will die; how will he die?

Now that he is showing his age and is more fragile, we are keeping a close eye on him, and will be his family until he goes, or until we make the decision for him. I adore him. As long as his will to live remains, I want to help him stay, but I fear his body will quit before his spirit does. My guess is that I will be the same. I do wish I had known him in the height of his powers. But I will know him until his spirit leaves this earth.