Refuge Farms (www.refugefarms.org)

It was the morning after Addie-Girl had crossed. All morning, no matter where I was or what I was doing, whenever I looked up all I could see was her fresh mound of dirt out by the poplar tree. I couldn't seem to not see Addie-Girl. So I double checked the horses to insure that all were set for the heat of the day and I went into town for errands and to wash some rugs at the laundromat.

Leaving home about 11:30 or so, I was home about 2pm and drove down the driveway toward the new barn to hang the rugs. I stopped opposite the clothes poles and looked up. Huh. Someone had been in the yard. I could see fresh tire tracks in the grass. And it had been a big truck judging by the width of the tire tracks. Maybe a trailer too? And there was horse manure in the grass. And there were lead ropes hanging on the corral fence. Hesitantly, I looked into the corral. There stood two big draft horses of which I didn’t know.

Shaking my head, I got out of the truck and hung the rugs. No need hurrying over to the corral. They were standing quietly eating the hay bale. I needed time to stop trembling and get my thoughts together. Once again, horses had been abandoned at THE FARM and once again it angered me that someone could be so bold! So disrespectful! So brass! When I had let out sufficient steam, I walked over to the corral. There stood these two horses. One a smaller typical blonde Belgian mare. And the other . . . . ”Jack, is that you?”

* * * * *

It was September of 1996. The Elmwood Rod & Gun Club was holding their Annual Professional Horse Pull on Sunday and a championship puller from the far eastern side of Wisconsin was heading over to compete. His pattern was to drive to the location and get his horses boarded by nightfall on Saturday to give their legs time to strengthen after the ride. Then the pull was on Sunday and they would all load up and head home on Monday.

It was a simple request that came to me. Actually, it was a no-brainer, it seemed. This puller would like to rent my box stalls for the weekend and would I be willing to do so?

“Sure!” was my response. Oh, how little I knew about big horses and their eyes that would suck you right in. About their easy temperaments. And about my own heart that would leave my chest when I just stood next to them.

Two horses arrived in a large metal horse trailer at 4pm on Saturday. The first was a good sized blonde Belgian gelding named Jim. Nice horse. I was impressed but still intact. Then Jack was unloaded. A chocolate Belgian, he was perhaps one of the prettiest big horses I had seen yet. And when he came out of the trailer, my first words were, “He’s longer than a freight train!”

This horse was long. Very long. And tall! And chocolate brown with enormous feet and legs that just didn’t quit until he hit the sky! His mane and tail were a dark tan and against that chocolate coat, he was certainly a picture to behold. You could hear the noise as my heart jumped straight out of my chest and directly into the chest of this enormous creature.

“Gonna try to sell him this weekend,” the owner told me. And my wheels began spinning . . . .

Something told me to take this picture of Jack the morning of the pull. Mike brought him out of the barn and gave him a quick bath with the hose and then in to the trailer he went. I stood there with shaking hands and took one picture of this big, gentle chocolate giant. I liked this horse.

The pull came and went. No one bit on Jack. He had been given a new name during the pull because there were so many horses named “Jack” in that competition. His new name was “Kentucky Jack”. You see, his current owner had purchased him from a horse puller down in Kentucky. So, Kentucky Jack was brought back from the club up to my little brick barn to spend the night. Chocolate and tall and gentle and long. Longer than a freight train . . . .

It was Monday morning and I was ready. When the owner arrived, I met him at his truck door and I offered to buy the horse. Just leave him where he is. I’ll pay the asking price for this long drink of chocolate. But the owner declined my offer. Said he was “too much horse for such a little girl” and so he loaded his horses and started his truck. I stood quietly by the trailer as those big brown eyes locked with mine. He whinnied at me and then the rig started rolling out of my driveway and out of my life.

* * * * *

A chocolate Belgian stood in the corral. Emaciated beyond belief. Mane all but gone and tail eaten or rubbed off. Huge hip bones sticking up in to the sky and legs that just didn’t quit. What was left of his mane and tail showed me it had been a dark tan in color. His body was that deep chocolate. And his size. Dear Lord! He was longer than a freight train! Was it Kentucky Jack?

With my first call to him he turned his enormous head. I knew those eyes. I knew this horse. This was Kentucky Jack. I got in to the corral and went up to his face. “Oh, Jack. Oh, Jack. What have they done to you? Oh, Jack.”

Tears ran as I saw his deteriorated condition. To say he was thin was an understatement. This giant stood in front of me thinner than Dude had been when he had arrived. He stunk of rotting horse something awful. His hide hung on his skeleton. His right rear leg was infected with maggots for the bottom thirty inches or so. His hooves had not seen a farrier in two years, at least. He had oozing burn marks from recent electric shock on both hips. And he had hide wear marks on his butt from wearing a harness that was too short for him. His shoulders showed the blister scars from wearing a collar without a pad – again trying to use him with equipment too small for him. And all the while he stood, his scruffy little tail was vibrating. Like his tail had the shivers. I cried and hugged his huge head. It was Kentucky Jack. And he was in big, deep trouble.

My mind already knew the outcome but my heart refused to listen. Not yet. Jack and I needed just a bit of time together. I made sure these two abandoned horses had plenty of good, fresh hay and a stock tank filled with clear, cool water. The stock tank was filled twice that afternoon. Both horses sunk their faces up to their eyeballs into the water before they drank. Almost like testing to see if there was enough water in the tank to satisfy their thirsts. Jack ate and stood quietly. All the while chewing and swallowing and surveying this land. He did not call and he did not intrude. He just stood. Quietly. He knew the outcome, too.

I left them for the night and then spent the entire day on Wednesday pampering Kentucky Jack. I gave him hay in a box stall and turned two fans on him. He had fresh water in his blue barrel every two hours. And I put all the feed in front of him that he wanted.

I bathed him in the heat of the afternoon and replaced that rotten stink with a resemblance to a horse smell. His hind leg I treated and swept away 4-5,000 maggots that dropped out of his leg. The treatment “froze” his tissue so he would no longer feel the itching and the biting of the maggots buried deep in his meat. He stood flat on the foot for the first time since he had arrived. And from then on, he did not stomp that foot trying to get at those irritating maggots. He was finally, finally rid of those biting irritants.

I brushed him and put salve on his burns. I talked to him and sang to him. And told him I was so happy to have him home again. In fact, Jack, did you realize that you are standing in the very same stall as you were in back in 1996? I talked of the future with him. Of how he would gain weight and grow a mane again. Of how I would bathe him and treat his burns. Of how we would get those maggots out of his leg. Of how Isaac would fix his feet. And of how I would never ever let him out of my sight again. We talked and I sang. And somewhere in the afternoon I cried.

Evening came and I brought him back out to the corral for the cool night with his partner. They greeted and scratched each other like they had been apart for years. Jack took a long, long drink of water and then chose a soft, grassy spot to lie down. He gently put that long frame in the cool grass and let out a sigh of total and utter contentment. He had water in him and a tummy full of feed. He was clean and the meat of his rear leg didn’t itch. His wounds were treated and he was with his partner. He knew he was safe. It was time to sleep.

Dr. Brian returned the next morning to help me give Kentucky Jack the greatest gift I could give him. This gentle, enormous chocolate giant crossed right before noon. Both Jack and I had known that yesterday was our time together and that this was to be the outcome. But neither of us could face it or talk about it until that kindly veterinarian face appeared in the yard. I explained to Jack my intentions and those huge brown eyes looked at me, blinked, and then he closed them. Taking a deep sigh, he laid back on his side ready and waiting. Dr. Brian shook his head in disbelief at the condition of this horse. “How he must have suffered,” he said. I just nodded through my tears and held that huge, long head as he quietly was set free.

Kentucky Jack. What a creature! How he had suffered in the years since I had seen him as a young prospect back in 1996. I had all but forgotten him. But he came back to see me once more. What an honor to have him here if only for a matter of hours! I cared for him and loved him. And this lanky horse knew he was safe. Finally safe. Safe enough to move on.


And so now, once again, there are two black flags flying at Refuge Farms. Black flags that fly for fourteen days out of respect for those who have crossed. Two flags to symbolize the crossing of two of The Herd - Addie-Girl and Kentucky Jack. Both “diers” to the letter. Both here for comfort and help.


“Thank you,” Dr. Brian said to me as he was about to get back into his truck that second day. “Thank you?” I cried. “For what?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you from him. Thank you from Kentucky Jack.”

It was the last Saturday in March of 2007. I was expecting a horse trailer to pull into the driveway about 3pm or so. In that trailer was a Percheron mare, 16 years old they said, that needed a home. My intentions were to re-home this mare. A Percheron should be easy to find a home for – everybody wants the big horses. They said nothing was wrong with her except she was thin. So I kept an eye on the driveway during the afternoon of our March 2007 Public Hours.

This mare came to my attention through an email I had received from a lady in northern Wisconsin – up by Superior. The story she told me was of a neighbor who had the horse and was willing to surrender the horse as long as no publicity or police or “do gooders” gave him a hard time for her condition. I agreed with his terms and accepted the mare to Refuge Farms through email. This was a first, but the description of the mare and her personality told me that adoption was the most likely route this time.

The trailer did, in fact, pull into the yard at just about 3pm straight up. A big steel trailer with one single mare in the rear compartment. After meeting the woman who had emailed me, Diane, and her husband, Andrew, the doors to the trailer were opened and I walked in to meet this little mare. All good intentions that I had were left behind me as my feet left the ground and I entered that trailer. This little mare was home.

I have seen thin before and this mare was one of the thinnest. And I have seen depressed before and this mare was deeply depressed. She turned her head to look at me as I came in beside her and her eyes were the same eyes I saw in Bonita when I found her standing in the kill buyer’s pen. Dead eyes. Unmoving eyes. Staring eyes. Checking out eyes.

Asking Andrew what they called her, he told me her name was “Addie”. Ever so gently placing my right hand on her withers and looking her straight in that dead left eye, I began. “Addie-Girl, I have a few things I want to tell you. They are The Three Promises. I am going to tell you what you can expect here. And I’m going to keep telling you these promises, Addie-Girl, for as long as you will stay with me here at this little patch of land. The first promise, Addie-Girl, is that you are safe here. . . .”

And so Addie-Girl came to become a part of The Herd on March 31, 2007. A day grey with a cold spring rain. A day when it felt more like winter was coming back than leaving. A day when the barns were already full but my heart just could not turn those sad, empty eyes away. A day when Addie-Girl heard The Three Promises in her left ear before her feet ever hit the dirt of the driveway.

It was quite some time later that the truth, or most of the truth, was disclosed to me. The story of Addie-Girl had not been represented to me exactly right. But I truly didn’t care. I just knew that Addie-Girl coming to Refuge Farms was the best thing for her. She needed the cares and the shelter and the medicines we gave her. She needed the love. And she needed to no longer be put in a harness and made to walk on pavement with that ring bone in her front joints. The forgiveness was not for me to give. The humans needed to forgive themselves.

We spent the first sixty days attacking the lice that covered every single solitary inch of her body. In her ears, under her tail, in her sides, under her belly, even in her hoof hairline. The horse literally had waves of movement on her sides as the lice attacked and sucked the blood and energy right out of her. How this creature tolerated the constant itching all over her was beyond me! I attacked those lice with everything I had. And spent hours scratching Addie-Girl!

It took sixty days, but at the end of those sixty days she was shiny and sleek and a bit of flesh was reappearing on her ribs. She had no lice and a good appetite. And every once in a while, I would catch her looking at another horse in the next pasture with a tad bit of interest. Huh. . . Maybe she was still in there and wanted to socialize a bit.

Indeed, Addie-Girl did attach to another horse for companionship and protection. She knew the pain of her bad feet well and so escape or normal horse movement was not hers any longer. And her demeanor was one of passive acceptance. Addie-Girl would not defend herself against a human or a horse, so she needed a protector who would do that for her. Someone she felt safe with. Someone who would stand up for her and get between her and the threatening creatures. Someone she could count on. Addie-Girl found Miss April.

The two were inseparable! When Miss April was brought in to the barn for her shoes to be reset, Addie-Girl would stand right next to the gate – not fifteen feet from Miss April! – and call to her and wait for her with a wrinkled, worried forehead. When Miss April was returned to the pasture, Addie-Girl would release this low rumble of joy from way, deep in her throat. And then the two-that-had-become-one would meander back out to the round bale again.

Humans were something that Addie-Girl tolerated but never received well. She had been abused and hurt and mistreated by these little creatures and so to openly trust them again would take more time than Addie-Girl’s body was willing to give us. But in those last weeks, Addie-Girl did allow me to clean her and touch her and sing to her. I bathed her and put Vaseline on her to keep her skin protected and the flies off of her. I wrapped her tail and she stood quietly allowing me the pleasure of cleaning and caring for her.

But I never asked her for a head hug or a big neck hug. That would have been too close and too much to ask this frightened little mare. She knew, deep in her heart, that she was loved her. She knew that. And knowing it was good enough for me. Getting that close to touch her head was more than I wanted to ask of this dark beauty of a horse. She needed that space to feel safe within herself.

Her eyes were as black as her coat. Deep, dark eyes that held pain in them. Not the physical type of pain, but pain from separation from one she loved. Miss April was good for her, yes, but Addie-Girl missed her partner. Inquiries in to her story unveiled the untruths of the original story but also unveiled Addie’s partner. A big grey dappled Percheron. A harness partner to Addie. A horse that would not be released to Refuge Farms, even though I pleaded to help Addie-Girl in her final weeks.

And for that, I am sorry for Addie-Girl. You longed deeply for the sight and touch of your partner. To have been together this spring would have given you great comfort and peace. I am sorry, Addie-Girl.

On Monday, June 22, 2009, Addie-Girl crossed with dignity and grace. True to her character and in strength, Miss April stood strongly by her side. Addie-Girl remained composed and was indeed a lady, right to the very end. Her loneliness and hesitancy were finally put to rest. As was that little vanishing body of hers that refused to respond to the medicine and cares.

It was time for Addie-Girl to cross over that bridge and wait for her long lost partner and all of us Human Beings that loved her. She is once again full bodied and shiny and standing with her head high in the air. She can run now and not have pain in her steps. She is joyful. Finally! Addie-Girl is at last truly singing from her heart.

Enjoy the journey of each and every day,
Sandy and The Herd

A father is a gift from life. When you are given life, you have been given a father.

A good Father is a gift from God.

My Father was a good man. I have told you before, that I am one of the most fortunate of all people having been born into a family with parents who wanted me. They were surprised by me, I’ll give you that, but they wanted me and they loved me. My home was solid and stable and my parents loved each other. Our household was run with rules and expectations and I was showered with affection. And in this mix was my Father, Donald Webster Gilbert.

My Dad was a home builder by trade – Don Gilbert Homes, Inc. In fact, the year I was born he was awarded the Home Builder of the Year award by the American Home Builders Association. I still have the tie clip from that honor. And when my Dad built a home, he did just that. He dug the hole for the basement and he laid the cement block. He wired and he plumbed. He built the walls out of straight 2x4’s and he laid the hardwood floors. He did the painting and laid the tile and he even made the cupboards. He did the landscaping and I remember laying sod with him. My Dad literally built the home.

One of the complaints I remember from my Mom was that everyone else got to live in Dad’s houses. We had to live “in somebody else’s crap”. My Mom didn’t hold too much stock in anyone else’s houses, as you could tell.

I remember visiting Mrs. Brintz, a grade school teacher from Homecroft Elementary. She lived in one of Dad’s houses. Even as a child, I could recognize a well built structure. I could sense the solid walls and heard the lack of creaks. I saw how everything operated well and there were no shims under any furniture legs. I saw wood everywhere – floors, trim, walls, cupboards, shelves, knick-knack cubbies. I felt safe and was in awe of one of his finished houses even as a child.

My Dad’s health failed the year I was born. We called it a “nervous breakdown” back then. Mayo Clinic was where he went and when he came home he was quiet. I suspect he was worried and disappointed in himself. The medical bills meant we had to sell stuff and so my Dad’s equipment started leaving the yard.

His new job was a construction job with Ulland Brothers out of Duluth. This job meant that he would have health benefits and less stress, they thought. This job meant that he would leave home on Sundays and come home late on Friday nights. He would work new highways or dams or bridges off in Minnesota or the Dakotas somewhere. Our home life changed without Dad around every day but Mom stuck it out and when he did come home, it was like Christmas every weekend!

Friday was the day to clean and cook. Mom made sure there was food ready to send with him for the following week and the house was spotless. As a grown woman now, I can only imagine the butterflies she felt as she awaited the arrival of the man she loved. And I feel a bit sorry for her that those brief hours had to be shared with two girls who, likewise, wanted time with this man. But as a child, I never felt that I was intruding or that my Dad wasn’t eager to see me. My Mom never ever sent me outside or to my room. There always seemed to be plenty of love to go around.

Sundays brought a full little house trailer freshly cleaned and stocked with clean clothes, clean linens, and food. My Dad would haul his trailer home so we could work our magic and then haul it back again. Even as a child, I would leave notes for him that he would find throughout the week. In the towels, in his socks, in his slippers. The notes would be silly but they would, I hoped, bring a smile to him and keep him close.

My Dad’s health faltered again when I was ten years old. This time Mayo Clinic couldn’t help us. It was cancer. And it was everywhere. Soon the man I knew as my Father was replaced by a man who bent the hospital bed rails in pain. A man who was quiet and swollen. A man who smelled way too much like antiseptic to be my Dad. A man that I clung to and played with as his cognitive abilities were eaten by the disease. A man that I loved even though it really wasn’t my Dad in there.

The medical bills meant we had to sell stuff and so my Dad’s equipment started leaving the yard again. This time we cried to see the bulldozer leave. And the shovel and his dump trucks. This time we cried. His funeral I try to forget. I know it was enormous. The funeral director was living in one of Dad’s houses and so all the stops were pulled out for this memorial. But we literally had people standing on the sidewalk outside listening to the service. The Johnson Mortuary in Duluth, Minnesota was filled with people who also loved my Dad.

When they closed the casket, I remember feeling a block of ice form in my chest. The man I adored was leaving and I would never hug him or hold his big work hands again. My Dad left big shoes for some other man to fill . . . .

And so on this Father’s Day, I remember my Dad. A man who had suffered from polio as a child and so walked with a bit of a “swagger”, as my Mom called it. A man who worked hard with his hands his entire life. A man who never had a signed contract for any of the houses he built. What good would that do? “If you can’t trust a man’s handshake and his word, then nothing written on paper will be any good” he would say. A man who was true and trustworthy. A man who had a ready laugh and a twinkle in those eyes. He taught me good life skills, this man.

Fathers are a gift of life. Good Fathers are a gift from God. And the Lord sure outdid himself on my Dad.

Enjoy the journey of each and every day,
Sandy and The Herd and Donald Webster Gilbert

It has been a bit since I've written in the blog. These past thirty days have been packed and emotional, to say the least.

There are, as one would expect in today's world, the constant, daily pleadings for horses to be taken in. Every single day - every single day - there is at least one email or one telephone call with a story and the question, "Will you take my horse?" To continually have only adoption to offer to those in such tight corners is difficult and easily makes one feel as if they are doing nothing at all. Sometimes its tough to remember that you are making a difference out there.

There has been the deteriorating health of Addie-Girl and recently Miss April's sudden and severe attack. The surgery for Dude. And the thrush of Vic. But these are the things you sign up for when you take on the "diers". And I do all of this willingly.

And somewhere in these past thirty days, in a span of only ten days, my entire past life came flooding to me and just about overwhelmed me. My Andy reared his head in an email I received from a young man who had worked for him in Oklahoma City. A young man that did not know of Andy's love for horses. Or even that Andy had died. How very, very sad on both accounts.

But clearly, as I opened the email, I felt the presence of the man right in my face. That strong face and the deep Texan voice. The respect and consideration he gave to me. The twinkle of his eyes. And his challenge for me to make a difference with "Charity Case". Well, "Charity Case" is blooming with peonies and iris and looking quite like he did when he ran the pastures - a gloriously free little mess!

Not even 48 hours after receiving the Andy email, my early career was in my face. Literally. Dan was here from Tennessee and I was transformed back to my late 20's with my future and the world in the palm of my hand. My technical counterpart stood in front of me and we connected as if the thirty years of time had never passed. An afternoon spent in our youth was good for both of us. And then Dan returned to Tennessee and I went back to cleaning barns.

Then on Memorial Day, of all days, my childhood appeared in my driveway. I ran up to the car to insure the guests to our Public Hours were greeted and there stood Butchie. Dear heavens, there stood Butchie! I screamed and we hugged. It had been how long? "Forty-two years," Butchie said. "Just forty-two years".

I grew up riding to school with Butchie's parents. My Dad and I plowed their driveway in the winters on our bulldozer. His parents were a model to me as another couple who loved each other and raised their two children with morals and manners and rules. Our families were similar and here he stood in front of me. I was standing next to Butchie!

As we walked to the barns, Butchie began to recall and tell me his memories of my Dad, my Mom, and my Sister. Butchie recalled how "Don always had that cigarette hanging from his mouth. An unfiltered Camel. And Sandy right next to him." It was thrilling - so very thrilling - to speak with another Human Being who had known my family. Someone who knew what they had looked like and who knew the sound of their voices. Oh, the thrill it brought to me! I felt by hugging Butchie I was somehow back on Gothenburg Road in Homecroft and the whole family would be home for dinner soon... And so my family came to me on Memorial Day.

All in all, it has been a bit of a roller coaster ride. And it has taken me a bit of time to trust these fingers at the keyboard. And yes, Father's Day is almost upon us. But I, of course, want to take you back to Mother's Day. I must tell you of Mother's Day. Where I was. What I saw. What I heard. The mark it has left on my heart.

Picture this: You are in the flats of Salt Lake City. A clean city and a mannerly, very polite city. Within thirty minutes, you can be in the mountains on your skis. Swooshing down the snow while the iris are blooming in your front yard.

The sun is shining and there is a gentle spring breeze. It is Sunday morning in Salt Lake City. And if you were a guest of that city on that day, where would you go? The Mormon Tabernacle Temple, of course.

So off we go and we arrive in time to stand in line for the 9:30am televised service. It is a service of music and celebration. The Mormon Tabernacle Temple and yes, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. It truly doesn't get any better than this!

As we are greeted upon entry to the sanctuary, I hear "Happy Mother's Day" greetings floating around and it dawns on me that this is indeed a very special service we are about to witness. I feel a twinge of loneliness as I realize the distance that is between me and The Herd. They are my children, you know, and a Mother wants to be with her children on Mother's Day.

The service is rehearsed and I am in awe. The pipe organ has over 10,000 pipes. Holy smokes! The choir is enormous and all dressed in matching gowns or suits. The orchestra is talented, to say the least, and the timpani make the walls vibrate. It is heaven for a college music major! Absolute heaven to be there!

The service went without a hitch and the live telecast was complete. Were we dismissed? Not yet! You see, an author was present in the audience and as a tribute to the man, the choir and orchestra would play their Emmy-winning version of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". Oh my. Oh my!

My chest could not swell any more. My ears could not hear any more. My heart could not beat any faster. And my mind could not absorb any more. Tears ran as I listened and absorbed as much as I could. I was in the Mormon Tabernacle while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performed "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". It truly doesn't get any better than this!

The last verse was repeated after we had been invited to sing along. So we did. With our shaky voices. Shaky from the emotions running wild through the chapel. And so as an added bonus on that Mother's Day, I sang with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Oh, it truly doesn't get any better than this!

But during the service, I felt a bit of my heart record a memory that I will keep with me, I think, forever. On this sunny day in Salt Lake City, I listened to a song which was my very own heart singing. A song of devotion and loyalty. Of hard work and fierce protection. Of caring and giving. Of forgiveness and honesty. It was The Three Promises that I give to these beaten up, thrown out horses when they arrive. It was my vows of love and protection to them. And those vows were simply being put to music and now sung to me. I heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing "Not While I'm Around".

The song is from the Stephen Sondheim musical "Sweeny Todd" and could not have been more appropriate for the Mothers sitting in the audience. It hit home, to say the least. So, I will leave you with some of the stanzas of the song and picture yourself there....in the 1800's chapel with the sunlight streaming through the windows. In early spring when the immaculately groomed gardens are making the air light with fragrance. With an orchestra's strings delicately setting the background for the women's floating voices. And then you hear your very own heart singing...

Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around.

No one's gonna hurt you,
No one's gonna dare.
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there.

Being close and being clever
Ain't like being true
I don't need to,
I would never hide a thing from you.

Not to worry, not to worry
I may not be smart but I ain't dumb
I can do it, put me to it
Show me something I can overcome
Not to worry.

No one's gonna hurt you, no one's gonna dare
Others can desert you,
Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there!
Demons'll charm you with a smile, for a while
But in time...
Nothing can harm you
Not while I'm around.

Now really, it truly, truly doesn't get much better than this!

Enjoy the journey of each and every day,
Sandy and The Herd

A Note from Sandy: One of my long, lost friends reappeared in my life this week. And he brought with him a flood of memories. Memories of our good times, our laughs, and some of life's most unexpected moments.

I asked this friend, as he was pulling out of the driveway, if he would care to write a blog. And he did. Below is that blog. Enjoy. And thanks, Dan!

25-May-09

Happy Memorial Day! I long ago felt uncomfortable with that sentiment but finally decided that I was happy with the privileges that our heroes helped to protect over the history of this country. We honor their memory today.

Regular readers of this blog will no doubt be wondering who this guy is intruding on their surroundings so let me introduce myself. About 30 years ago I was assigned to a project at a company in Minneapolis. A woman named Sandy would be the Business Analyst and I would be the Systems Analyst. We were both young, aggressive, and we were going to fix everything wrong with the entire world. It is possible that our expectations exceeded our reach.

Sandy and I remained friends for a decade and more but then lost track of each other after geography and other things changed. We found each other again last year and I found myself near to Spring Valley last week so that I could finally see Sandy and her charges in person.

On this day when we honor human heroes, I want to honor the volunteers and supporters of Refuge Farms. A hero is someone who ignores dangers to their well being and their very life to defend the defenseless. I know that horses are not helpless but they do not, in fact, have a defense against the evils and ignorant neglect of their human keepers. Those of you who defend them are indeed heroes in my book.

Thank you for your sacrifice.

By the way, some of you might not know that the original name for Memorial Day was Decoration Day when, once a year, graves of those fallen in battle were decorated. When you are next at THE FARM, look across the lawn from the house and you will see the decorated graves of our fallen heroes of The Original Herd. Remember them as well.

Be well, all of you, and do your work with a glad heart. You may not save the world by yourself but it cannot be saved without you.

Dan Knutson

It is a glorious morning in the springtime in west central Wisconsin. There is a slight chill in the air but you don't notice that since your ears are almost assaulted by the sounds of the birds calling to each other. They are so busy at this time of year - building and maintaining their nests, gathering food for themselves and their babies, and just using their wings to fly, fly, fly! Almost makes one jealous, doesn't it?

The sky is as clear as a bell. There is not a cloud to be seen. Our day today will be sunny. The air is filled with the fragrances of spring, as well. In the yard there are several lilac bushes in full bloom and the aroma is enough to make your head light! I have stood many times next to the bushes and filled my lungs to capacity. Trying to absorb the fragrance and pack it away in my brain someplace to pull out on a particularly bitter January morning.

The horses are all picking at grass or flat out on their sides loudly an unashamedly snoring in the hay. This, to me, is one of the very best parts of the day. They have picked all night and now find their legs may need a rest and so the hay is calling to them reminding them of its softness. "Come! And rest that big body for a little while!" Big and little bumps in the hay. I look for Spirit and do not see her! But not to worry, she is simply hidden in the hay by the size of the bodies that surround her - Babee Joy, Jeri-Ann, and Beauty.

When I begin to stir, they begin to rise. And then they do something that I stop to watch: they s t r e t c h. Oh, how adorable even the biggest of the big becomes when its sleepy eyes are opening and in the middle of a yawn, they stretch. How very human of them!

Today is a bit more special than most, though. Since today is the day of the Annual Walk for Refuge. Of course, it is a fundraiser. But it is a special fundraiser. It is on this day that we bring out pledge sheets and the pledges are accumulated for the purpose of caring for the feet of The Herd. I tell people that we use our feet to care for their feet.

This is our 5th Annual Walk for Refuge. And each year, as a result of the efforts of the volunteers and supporters, we raise the funds we need to care for those all important feet of the horses. For, you see, a horse with sore feet soon begins the downward spiral of deterioration. With sore feet, a horse stops eating and seldom drinks and begins to lay more than to stand. With sore feet, the exercise stops and the internal organs begin to malfunction. With sore feet, the will to live soon escapes them. Feet are everything to a horse!

I remember Miss Bonita when she arrived here on that cold, bone chilling November day. She was 500-600 pounds underweight and her coat was blotchy. Her head hung low and she spent her time going from minute to minute. Her manure was too loose and her urine told me of kidney failure. Even in that cold air, she was sweating with pain. All of this because this enormous mare was trying to stand on feet that were full of puss and pain.

It took three years, but Miss Bonita's feet recovered. The yearly abscesses that would come two or three at a time disappeared. The curvature of her hoof straightened out. And one fine day, I actually saw Miss Bonita trot up the hill to the barn for supper. The days of living in the softness of a round bale were behind her. Miss Bonita was a horse again!

Her coat turned silky blonde and her urine was clear. Her manure - all 80 pounds of it! - was normal and moist. The feet of this giant brood mare were the key to her survival as well as to her enjoyment and pleasure of the day.

It was when her feet recovered, that her heart soon followed. With good feet, Miss Bonita was able to lift her head and look around her. Her eyes fell upon the handsome horse that had always been standing just to her left flank. Big Jim. Patiently awaiting her, Big Jim adored Miss Bonita.

When Miss Bonita was free of the pain from her feet, she was able to see and foster the relationship that Big Jim had so dutifully been waiting for. "Two Peas in a Pod" is what I called them. And their love was solid and loyal. So loyal, in fact, that the very day that Big Jim crossed, Miss Bonita began refusing her feed. She simply stopped eating. Her heart was broken and her spirit died. And then, what would take her happened. Her feet went bad again.

A horse with bad feet is a horse in dire straits. And so we walk today - a simple one mile walk - to symbolize the use of our feet or wheels or wagons or bikes for the care of their feet. We bring our dogs and our friends. We walk and then we sit to eat and talk. But all the while, I will be seeing in my mind's eye, the feet of Miss Bonita.

Thank you to all of you who have pledged your support for this Annaul Walk for Refuge. Thank you for your help in maintaining those all important feet of our horse ministers.

And thank you to the walkers. We will enjoy each other and the day today. We will know that our efforts are for the very survival of those that have been promised respect and care and a final home here at THE FARM. We will eat and we will laugh. And today, of all days, I will bring the story of Miss Bonita with me. I will place her promptly on the table for all to see. The gigantic mare who showed us all that the feet of a horse - those often overlooked and neglected feet - are the very key to their survival.

Enjoy the journey of each and every day,
Sandy and The Herd with Miss Bonita right behind us

A Note from Sandy: As we go into this weekend of Mother’s Day, I am the first to acknowledge the significant role our Mothers play in our lives. They “set us” for the future. Such a task to be placed on the shoulders of a single Human Being!

And I am not a Mother in the typical sense of the word. However, each and every morning as I walk to the barns, I am singing, “Good morning, Children! Good Morning! How are my Children today?” And I feel as much a Mother as anyone on this earth.

How these “Children” come in to the fold is often a story of chance and Divine Intervention. Just this past Easter, three precious Children were pulled from horrendous conditions and brought in to the fold for healing and re-homing. How this came about is the Easter Story at its best. And reason to pause on this Mother's Day weekend.

Rose R. was with me that Easter Sunday. And, as it worked out, Easter Monday, too. And it seems fitting that from her passenger seat she tells you the story of the resurrection of these three who now lift their heads when they hear their new Mother singing, “Good morning, Children!”

Three Easter Resurrections by Rose R.

"It was a dark and stormy night when the two women started out on their mysterious trip…”

Okay, so it was a beautiful spring day, Easter Sunday as a matter of fact, but our trip turned into quite the little drama, complete with unanswered questions, plot twists and turns, and more than a little sleight of hand. But we persevered and got more than we expected! Settle back and let me tell you a story:

Sandy and I were going to pick up two blind mares at a farm in Wisconsin, north of Interstate 94. The woman who lived on this farm had way too many horses and would definitely be termed a “hoarder”.

One rescue was a blind quarter horse mare that we had already visited 3 weeks earlier. The woman who currently had the mare claimed she had rescued her from another person and brought her back from the brink of death but now all this woman wanted was to find a good home for her ‘baby girl’.

The mare was older and fairly healthy but was being kept in a stall made of cast-off milking stanchions in an old dairy building. There were three other similar pens right next to and across from the mare’s makeshift stall. One held an extremely filthy pig that waded around his little pen up to his belly in manure and the other two stalls held two stallions, one of which was right next to the mare’s stall, almost within biting reach of her. She was nibbling on urine-soaked hay and the ammonia smell from the dirty concrete floor of her “stall” was making her eyes water.

Although there was a grain bucket, it was empty. The mare was understandably kind of nervous and stood with her legs tucked under like she was afraid of bumping into the stallion in the very next stall. Needless to say, we left that farm 3 weeks ago with Sandy determined to get that little mare out of that nasty situation. She scheduled a time to pick her up on April 12th, Easter Sunday.

Just before that date, a kill-buyer that Sandy has gotten horses from in the past called and arranged to leave a blind appaloosa mare up at that same farm. This mare was in very good condition and broke to ride. Leaving the mare at that farm would save both the kill-buyer and Sandy an extra trip.

Easter Sunday was one of the first nice days we had after a very long, cold winter. We were going to deliver The Old Coot to his new forever home and then go pick up the mares. We left Refuge Farms with plenty of time to go have breakfast before we hit the road. We stopped at a local gas station/restaurant but the restaurant part was closed for the holiday. We went into the attached gas station convenience store and had to settle for nuts and cookies and milk for our Easter breakfast!

Off we went and had a nice heart-warming visit at The Old Coot’s lovely new home. With an empty trailer and hearts full of hope we waved good-bye to The Old Coot and his new friends and went to pick up our two old blind mares.

We got up to the farm and pulled into the yard with the big Exiss trailer and the woman and her two daughters were waiting for us at the first bend in her circular driveway. The woman had moved the mare out of the dairy barn and into an outside corral, away from the two stallions, so she was considerably less anxious and seemed very content to go right into the front of the trailer where Sandy had some fresh hay. I had the woman sign the surrender papers while Sandy exited the trailer by the side door. The woman and one of her daughters were kind of excited and giggly, but I thought they were just happy to see that mare get on her way to a better home.

Sandy looked around a little and said, “Well, that was good! Now, where is the other mare?” The woman kind of frowned and looked a little puzzled and then just pointed behind her to a horse that had been standing off to the side with a blue blanket on. She said, “Mare? No, this is the horse the kill-buyer left.”

By that time, we had all noticed and exclaimed on the fact that the blue-eyed, bald-faced paint was a male, not a mare. Sandy asked the woman why the kill-buyer would have specified a mare and then turned around and dropped off a gelding but the woman just appeared to be mildly exasperated and said, “I just hate when he does this to me! He just comes by and drops these horses off, ties ‘em to a tree and don’t say nothing to me half the time! But this is the horse he left, for sure! He can’t get around very good, he’s all stiff in the back end and we were walking him around every 45 minutes because he just lays down all the time!”

Sandy looked at me and I looked at her and I just shrugged because I hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do! Sandy sighed a little, dusted off her gloves and said, “Well, let’s see if we can get him in the trailer!” so she hooked up a lead rope and the old guy kind of tottered after her, paused at the bottom of the ramp to the trailer and Sandy said, “Step up, now!” and he clipped the edge of the ramp with his hoof and then lifted that foot and put it on the ramp and kept on trudging up the ramp into the trailer just like he had been doing that every day of his life.

Sandy went to take the blanket off to give it back to the woman and that was when we got a couple more shocks: this was an intact male, a stallion, not a gelding and he was SO THIN!!

This had been a big, beautiful proud horse in his time but now his hip bones stuck out and his ribs had no padding on them. His thin winter coat was scruffy and worn bare in some spots on his haunches. We had taken out several of the Plexiglas panels in the upper row of windows in the trailer as it was such a nice day but now Sandy became very concerned that this poor, starving old guy was going to be too cold with that kind of a draft on him once we got on the road. She asked the woman if we could please borrow the blanket and we would clean it and get it back to her as soon as we could and the woman said that was no problem, for sure.

We gave the old guy a couple more gentle pats and closed up the trailer and said ‘Thank you’ to the woman and drove off, slowly, so our two fragile new rescues would not be bounced around.

I think there was complete silence in the truck for the first couple of minutes and then Sandy said something to the effect that she wondered what in the heck was going on and she sure was going to find out who dropped off what horse but our primary objective was to get these two horses into clean, safe stalls.

When we got back to Refuge Farms and opened the trailer, the skinny guy had laid down in the shavings. With the doors to the trailer wide open, he just laid there – too weak to move. With some coaxing, he stood and we unloaded the two horses with no fuss at all. I took pictures of them both and we got them settled with plenty of clean water, fresh straw and good hay. Sandy kept calling the stallion, “Dude!” and even though he was starving and weak and in rough shape, you could tell that this guy was a horse with a lot of dignity left in him, so “Dude” he remains.

I had a vacation day on Monday, April 13th, to catch up on my housework and relax after a very busy previous 3 days so I was more than a little surprised to get a phone call from Sandy at about 10 a.m. She said that she was going to take another ride up to “that woman’s” place and this time she was going to get the right horse! She explained that she had gotten a call from the kill-buyer the night before, asking about the nice little appaloosa mare he gave her and Sandy told him what happened: we had gotten one blind mare and an old paint stallion not a sweet, fat little mare.

The kill-buyer proceeded to accurately describe Dude and told Sandy that the woman had pulled a switch on us! That stallion was her horse, not one he dropped off; one that he had already refused to take. When the woman saw that appaloosa mare and realized that this was a valuable registered appaloosa mare, she decided to switch horses, keep the mare to breed and get rid of a horse she thought was going to die anyway!

Needless to say, we dropped the Exiss trailer in record time, threw the woman’s blue blanket in the truck and headed up to her farm. Half way there, Sandy called the kill-buyer, who was going to meet us at the farm and try to expedite matters. I felt a little better knowing that we would have someone else there as I didn’t know how much trouble this woman was going to give us when we tried to get that appaloosa mare.

I wondered if they still hanged horse thieves nowadays, as Sandy was sure steamed enough to throw a rope over the nearest tree limb! Sandy kept asking what kind of fools that woman thought we were by feeding us lies and switching horses? Did she think that we wouldn’t know the difference between a mare and a stallion?

We arrived at the farm, driving in right after the kill-buyer’s little car and the woman and her two daughters met us in the driveway. Sandy and I got out of the truck at the same time. The woman was waving her arms and practically screaming, “It was all a mis-communication between those two!!” I didn’t understand who ‘those two’ could possibly be, but she took us right up to where she had the mare out in a corral behind the dairy barn, conveniently out of sight.

The poor little blind mare was just huddled up against the back of the barn, too scared to move because she might run into something and there were stock tanks, barrels, t-posts and all sorts of miscellaneous junk in the corral, with other horses, including another paint mare with a baby with a surprisingly familiar bald face! Turns out the foal was the Dude’s latest baby.

Sandy asked the woman politely to sign the surrender papers for Dude, as there was no way on earth we were going to give him back to her, and the woman said, “I don’t know why I’m signing these papers! That’s his horse!”, meaning the kill-buyer. I guess that she had figured on sticking to her story and claiming that Dude was the kill-buyer’s horse. But she signed the papers.

Dude was now safe in Refuge Farms' legal possession. We left without saying much more, just very disturbed by the whole incident and sad that this woman still had a lot of horses.

On the return trip, I asked if Sandy would ever go back up there to get another one of her horses if the woman or the kill-buyer ever called. “You bet! We’d do it in a heartbeat to save another life!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Enjoy the journey of each and every day,
Sandy and The Herd and Dude!