Refuge Farms (www.refugefarms.org)

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In order for you to understand the home from which Handsome came. In order for you to fully appreciate the apprehension and fear in my heart as I drove to retrieve him. And in order for you to fully understand the significance of an old man's question.

In order for all of this, I must first tell you the story of three other horses. You must come to know them and their stories before I can tell you the story of Handsome. And have you understand. The story of these three horses takes place in 2001....

The November ground was getting hard from the cold nights and there was a cold, sleety rain coming out of the gray overcast skies. It was truly miserable outside. "Not fit for man nor beast!" I could hear my Mother tell me. And here I was on the road for three plus hours to rescue horses I had never even seen.

Oh, that first rescue I had been so naïve! I had actually expected relatively sound horses. Simply older horses no longer able to professionally compete in a horse-pulling contest. Horses simply in need of retirement. I had been totally, completely, and enormously unprepared for what was in front of me.

Upon arrival, I spotted two large horses standing on a hillside. Like bookends, they stood there with their heads hanging down trying to escape the cold, sharp winds. But what was that lump between them that they were standing guard over?

I walked up the hill and sure enough, the “lump” on the ground was the third horse. An old horse with one eye gouged out from a meeting with a bull. His head was enormous! And the body? Well, the body was so small you barely say it lying there. His feet were huge and stuck out from under his skeleton of a frame. This is the “lump” that the two bookends were guarding. How long had they been standing there to protect him? The loyalty of these two big horses was not lost on my heart.

I spent the better part of the day on that hill in the freezing rain. Working and coaxing. Massaging and feeding. Watering and rubbing. Pulling ever so gently. Singing and encouraging. Praying and crying. I had promised the old horse that if he would rise, I would bring him to a warm barn and warm food and warm blankets. And I would listen to him about what to do with his life. I would do all I could for him, if he would just rise.

My watch told me it had been a little over four hours. I would give him another hour to gather up his strength. If he still was unable to rise, I would contact the local vet and give him relief from this frozen hill. I would not leave him here. And I told him that. One way or another, we were leaving this frozen barren hillside together.

I paused for a while and just studied him. A proud horse with a long, worthwhile past. A horse that no longer served a purpose and so was just left to die out here. Freezing to death would most likely be the cause. But not before the wolves and coyotes and rats had a few meals on him. Asking him to try just once more, I lifted the rope without putting any pressure on his face. And this old, emaciated, weary, worn-out horse stood.

And then I saw it. Frozen in to the dirt of the hill so solidly that it was actually a part of the hill was a large patch of the hide of the old horse. His right side had been on that ground so long that as the ground became cold, his body lost the fight of keeping his hide warm. And so the hide had actually melded in to the earth and frozen right with it. Dear heavens! The strength of that old horse to rise knowing full well that his rising would cause this harm to come to him. But he chose to rise and not die on that hill. A new profound respect for the old horse overwhelmed me.

We all four walked gently and very slowly to the trailer. The two bookends never left his side. They walked as if to catch him in case those skinny, atrophied, weak legs gave out on him. But the old horse was proud and had decided he would make it to the trailer. And he did. With difficulty breathing and in obvious pain, in a pure miracle of strength and determination, this old horse made it into the trailer.

Once inside, I threw a horse blanket on him and then stood back. As expected, he was quickly down in the deep pile of dry shavings. The bookends came in to the trailer so all three of them could easily see and nudge each other on the ride home. After closing the doors, I ran as quickly as I could back up to the hill to gather my belongings. I was starting to feel the cold and wet of my own skin now that the horses were safely tucked in my trailer. My teeth were chattering and my body was shaking.

Without hearing him, George had approached me on the hill. He had been watching from his house and came out to tell me of his surprise that I was able to get the old horse up. But, he said, if the old horse had not gotten up the other two would not have left him. So he was glad that I could get them all off of the hill.

I turned to George and did something I had never done before and have never done since. I voiced an opinion of the behavior of the person who had abused the animal that I was rescuing. And I voiced my opinion right to his face while looking him straight in the eyes. “George,” I said, “you’re gonna go to hell if you don’t start taking better care of your horses.”

With that I gathered my items and departed. Stopping only briefly to check on the three precious animals inside the trailer and to tell George that he did a good thing when he called me. He agreed. He probably had waited a bit too long, he supposed, but he was glad they were in my care now. With that simple statement, I felt the weight of all three of these large pulling horses resting now squarely on my shoulders.

The Old Horse on the Hill I called Tom-Boy. The bookends kept their names of Sonny and Clyde. It was a very long journey home that day. I drove carefully and slowly, really not wanting to turn in to my own driveway. My heart knew Tom-Boy’s choice the minute he was comfortable and warm in the bed of shavings. He was ready and his one good eye would tell me of his decision when I approached him once we got home. I would help him on his final stage of his journey.

Sonny and Clyde spent thirty days with me. I tried specialists and every source I could possibly think of to try to heal their wounds. Sonny had an enormously infected wound of proud flesh on one of his front feet. Surgery was performed and even that did not rectify the condition. And he weakened as time went on. Clyde, too, had a maggot-infested hoof with a dead coronary band. And a horse with no hoof is a horse with pain and misery.

Thirty days went quickly but I was grateful for each and every day. Sonny and I had time to play! This horse was alert and truly a playful giant. A bit clumsy with that enormous growth throwing his balance off, but playful just the same. Clyde and I had time to share long hugs. This horse was an introvert and simply wanted to heal so he could be a horse again. They all crossed with gentle hands touching them and a voice full of respect and compassion singing in their ears.

And so, I had “rescued” horses from George years before. His telephone call that night in November of 2007 was for another horse. Another “good horse” that he thought I should come and get. The situation had changed, he said. Could I find the way over to his place to pick up this horse? He had a bad eye, but he was a good horse. Could I come? Tomorrow?

With great apprehension, I started east once again on I94. What would I find this time? How emaciated would this one be? How bad was it this time? Full of fear but determined to help whatever was awaiting my arrival, I began the journey to George’s farm one more time…..

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