I love that Oberon now has enough strength, and trust, to wag his head proudly at me, impatient for grain, knowing that he will not be hit and knowing that grain will come. I love when he struts like a proud stallion, flashing a shadow of the gaits he once possessed before he was broken.
I love that Razzle is walking better each day, and that she runs out to greet Oberon each morning as he roars and squeals and welcomes her back for another day alive.
I love that Molly knows when I call her name, whether she is to run to me with the herd, or whether (being out of bounds somewhere) she is supposed to take off and slip quickly back in the way she came, unseen by the rest of the band. I love that we lead that band together. I love that then I can approach her, this huge proud black mare, and pet her gently, and she turns and mouths my fingers. I love that she is so gentle and so fierce.
I love watching Finn and Rhett playing at sunrise, circling and rearing and gently nipping, showing big trots and high tails like flags. I love watching the mares watching the boys show off.
I love watching Aggie Jo grow up, becoming strong of limb and mind, a confident little leader. I love that she enjoys watching chunks of ice float downstream, and I love that I have taken the time to learn that about her.
I love that nearly any horse here can be lead gently with just a loose lead about their neck, or just by verbal commands. I love that they trust that we will lead them somewhere safe.
I love that Apollo is calm and happy and that he jumped! That he is thriving despite abuse and illness. And I love how beautiful his sister Sparrow has grown, without a trace of darkness in her soul.
I love that the christmas colts have learned to drink from the stream, and canter around the herd, and come when called. I love that the already trust enough to have their hooves trimmed and coats brushed out at liberty. I love that they are growing.
I love that Clover nickers at me now, a low three beat call, as I approach. I love that her son is learning early that there are humans that are trustworthy. I love that they are still together, peaceful in a field.
I love that I had the chance to know Jed, and that because of that love, I miss him every day. I don’t regret a moment of that. I love that others beyond our little farm got a sense of his magnificent soul, and could see the value in a broken down amish horse.
And I love that others out there may read these words, and knowing the love of a horse, share my happiness.

Know what a horse wants more then anything else?
You guessed it, other horses.
THEN they will eat and flirt and roll and do other horsie things, but they need their herd first. It’s lifeblood. It’s life. It’s protection and companionship. And the more I observe this, the more amazed I am that it’s not generally considered important by many horse owners. Even selfishly. A happy horse is healthier, and a better athlete and a more balanced personality. A happy horse makes a better riding companion and a more trustworthy creature to entrust one’s life with. A young horse taken too early from it’s mother and it’s herd misses out on all sorts of healthy horse education. An adult horse that is sold and re-sold, it’s relations constantly disrupted, broken, becomes itself broken, unable to easily interact and form relationships; nervous, or too aggressive, or overly shy….and in the end, not as successful with it’s human relationships, either. It’s universally beneficial to recognize the deep herd connections in our horses.
And now you know how herd groups have arisen at Rosemary Farm.
As horses have arrived here, their personalities and abilities are evaluated. We also look at the current make up of each band at the farm, and see where the new one might fit. Introductions are made over a fence, and then one by one, the herd is brought and introduced to the new horse. This can take time, depending on how it goes. Some horses have not had other horse friends, or run with a band and it takes them longer to figure it out. Some overdo it with bravado, or fear, and others quietly slip into the fabric of the group. Pecking orders are re-established as the new horse finds friends and finds a place. Even the lowest horse in a band has a purpose and wants to belong.
When it comes to adoptions from the farm, all of this is taken into account. I read once that a gorilla is more aware of being part of a family then he is an individual, like a finger on a hand. And I can see that each band here has it’s own life, and losing a member affects them all. So if a horse has become a crucial member of a band, they are removed from the adoption list. This includes herd leaders, or semi-wild members who have found a measure of peace. We are more likely to adopt younger horses, because that mimics what would happen in any species, as the young move off into the world to have adventures of their own. Older horses are the most heart-breaking; a band will not usually allow them to join, especially if there is weakness, and there isn’t a lifetime of respect to build upon. But we work on it, and sometimes they find a way in. An older horse, already having suffered the trauma of homelessness, will not be asked to go through that again, and is home here.
When adopters come to us, one of the first things we explain is that none of our horses will be allowed to live alone. Some owners are shocked or annoyed by this. “I will be around”, they say, but I ask, Do they sleep in the barn? Are you there at 4am, when there is a scary sound, or 6am for a scratch, or 2pm to watch over a nap? Can you show a colt how to drink from the stream? Can you show the ex-racehorse how to rear in play? Can you teach the hierarchy signals sent by the flick of a lead mares’ ear? These things we have seen here. We are particularly grateful for our BLM mustang, for showing the young boys how to be a horse from a first generation wild one. Fact is, having a human as part of a herd is great, but it is no substitute for another horse.
We like to say that any adoptive home has to be at least as good as living here. We don’t mean that to sound so egotistical! because we cannot provide as much one-on-one as some horses desire. But we do provide space and time to be a horse. With other horses. And that’s a pretty good place to begin. We provide a team of people smarter then us, equine experts in their own fields, to help care for our horses. And with care and space, many upset or angry or frightened horses find peace. Watching a happy herd of 18 horses, sleeping or grazing or thundering down the mountain, is awfully addicting. Come by sometime and see for yourself.
Goats don’t cut it. Sheep or cows won’t do. Horses need horses. Trust us, it’s magic, like air in your lungs magic. Like earth under your feet magic. Like stars in the sky, our herd is more aware of being part of a constellation then being an isolated planet. And that is how it was meant to be.

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.

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