Refuge Farms (www.refugefarms.org)

As I continue to live in this world of rescue, I seem to learn some lessons over and over again. Sometimes, in this world so close to death and loss, I feel so heavy and burdened. So helpless and ineffective. Contributing so very little to a problem that is so large that it cannot even be measured.

But then, sometimes in this world so close to life and success, I feel the full bliss of doing something good. I feel the pure and absolute joy of just standing next to a creature that is alive because we were there. To hear the animal breath. To watch it sleep. To touch it softly and whisper words of support and encouragement. Of praise for trying. To pray with the animal as we both wait to see if what we do will work. To wait and see if there will be life. Or a crossing. Lessons learned.

And some lessons that I learn are about destiny. About that thing we call The Master Plan. Those lessons that make me smile about planning and setting schedules and goals. And then spending one day in reality and knowing that if you make it through the day with keeping your barns clean, your tanks full of clean water, and the horses fed and protected, well then you've done a mighty good day's work that day. No schedules met. No tasks checked off the To Do List. No lawn mowed today. But they are healthy. They are fed. Their home is clean. And they are safe. Lessons learned.

Two weeks ago on a Monday morning I had a list on my desk. A list I had created over the weekend. It was the "Monday List". Things I HAD to get done on this Monday - telephone calls, letters to write, emails to send, and errands that must be completed. I was up and about with household chores completed by 7AM. My barn boots were on my feet and I was drinking a glass of milk when the telephone rang. Huh. It wasn't even 7:30AM yet. Had to be a horse. My hand reached for the telephone and I sat down in my desk chair.

It was Connie. A friend who I've come to know in the time I've been in this world of rescue. A woman whom I trust. Who, when she says this horse is in trouble, I know it is. Connie doesn't blow smoke, as they call it. She tells it as it is - rough, at times, but honest. And Connie knew of a horse in trouble.

We talked. I took notes. In our conversation, I made no commitments but I agreed to call the horse's owner to discuss the horse and the situation. When our call ended, I finished my milk before calling the owner.

The story was all too familiar - the horse was worthy and the owner had no options. Regardless of why, the owner could not continue to care for the horse. And in this case, at 11AM on Tuesday, this horse was being delivered to the U of M Equine Center to be euthanized.

I constantly remind and tell myself that we cannot save them all. Some will die. Some have to die. There is not room for all of them. There is death every day in this world of horse rescue. Senseless, wasteful, ignorant death. But once in a while, one of them reaches out and I feel the need to dig a bit. To check it out. To maybe, just maybe, consider taking this one in. Knowing we cannot save them all. But maybe, this one . . .

Such was the case with Storm. A thoroughbred/hanivarian cross gelding. A professional show horse. A gentle horse. A horse with titles and papers and awards. A horse with both eyes surgically removed. The owner quoted the horse as 18 - 20 years of age and in generally good health. Mellow and mild. Safe for any level rider. Sound and an easy keeper. A picture of this horse was forming in my mind. An idea was taking shape. And so I continued to dig.

Storm had been living with two smaller horses and those horses had been re-homed. The owner needed a home for this big horse and since she had been turned down by every other rescue she had contacted, she had scheduled his death. But she had been referred to us by several of those rescues as the "only one around that takes the blind ones". The telephone calls from the owner had dropped into voice mail that weekend. However, Connie's call had been received. Could it be another lesson to be learned?

I asked a few more questions and then arrangements were made for Storm to arrive. The horse in the corral needed to be placed to make room for Storm and so within 24 hours of that placement, the owner's truck and trailer appeared in the circular driveway here at Refuge Farms. Storm was here.

My first impression of this tall, lanky horse was not matching the picture I had painted in my mind. There were hipbones and ribs sticking out everywhere. The hooves were long. The mane had been roached and was only inches long. The neck was tiny. And the legs went on forever. The withers? They stuck up above his spine which was visible through the unbrushed coat. Oh, my heart broke for this horse. No longer used in the show ring he had been left behind. Yes, it was indeed The Master Plan. This was a dier. This horse was on the brink and he had come to us to decide which way to go in that fork in his life's road.

Backing out of the trailer, I saw obedience and compliance. But to the degree that instantly I saw depression. His head tilted a bit but he followed me without a question. Head low. Feet moving forward but not feeling the ground. Just moving. Asked to move and so he moved. No interest. No response to the other horses all around him. No response to grass. No response to my touch. Just no response. He was withdrawn way, way deep inside. He just was.

Two days later a friend visited Refuge Farms. A man who is connected with horses. In fact, I have introduced this man and tell of this man to anyone who will listen. And I tell them, "Tony is part horse." While Tony spent some time with this tall, lanky horse I quietly asked Tony what he felt from this horse. Was he here to die?

Earlier that morning, I had asked this tall horse if that was his plan. After watching him for two days, I asked if he was here to die? If that was his plan then I would certainly support him and help him. But I asked him to please give me a chance. Would he let me try to help him? To restore his body and help him enjoy being a horse again? I told him of the others on this land that were just like him. No eyes. No sight. But happy and fat and with friends. And they know they are safe. They are horses. True, honest horses. They just couldn't see. Would he let me try to help him? But, I told him, if he wanted to cross, if he was tired or too weary, then I would understand. Just give me a sign. When you are ready, I told him, give me a sign.

Picture by Lesa Ann

So I asked Tony. What did he think? Was this horse here to die? Tony stood for a while. My eyes filled as I feared Tony was trying to find a gentle way to tell me. "He's going to be around for a while", Tony said. Just like Tony. Give me an answer without giving me an answer. But I respected the answer. Tony respected and lived like a horse. And so it only fit that he would answer like a horse. He's going to be around a while. But the answer gave me hope. How long is "a while"? To me, it was long enough to try!

It has been two weeks since that day that Tony visited. Two weeks of trying food combinations. Soaked beet pulp. Soaked hay cubes. SafeChoice. Mare and Foal. Fat supplements. ProBios. UlcerGuard. Avoiding the temptation to brush him since his hide rests right on his jutting bones. Grateful for the rains that gently wash his dirty hide. Grateful for the cool nights that let him wander outside of the shelter in the corral. And grateful for Miss April.

I added Miss April to his world to teach him how to eat. When he first arrived, this horse smelled food but did not open his mouth. He ate a few treats from my hand but would not eat feed out of a bucket. Or out of my hand. Or off the earth. I tried everything I could think of and every combination of food that I could think of but he just had no interest in eating. Better to let a horse teach a horse, I thought. And so I put our best eater in with him and she did her thing.

I tied them side by side and fed Miss April a handful of food in her bucket. She ate. He listened and smelled. I fed Miss April another handful of feed. She ate. He listened. Then I put a handful of feed in his bucket. She ate that. He listened and smelled it and felt her in his bucket. The second handful in his bucket I blocked Miss April's head and watched as he put his nose into his own bucket. A little competition sometimes works magic.

Two weeks and a series of medicines for ulcers. A floating of his teeth that was badly needed. Fecal samples for deworming guidance. Vaccinations. Coggins tests. Urine tests. Blood tests. Two weeks and we have a horse that eats his breakfast out of a bucket now. Who munches on hay right next to Miss April. And a gelding who goes outside at night to graze on a bit of grass. There is progress although I still watch him for signs of thinking of crossing. I still tell him I'm there if he decides to move on. I still reassure him that we will support him and care for him. And I encourage him to let us give him a chance. That he'll like it here. He'll be safe here. And he'll have friends and joy here. But it is his choice. It is, after all, his life.

Yesterday I turned this big horse out into the big pasture with Miss April and all the others who depend on senses other than sight to maneuver. Yesterday was a big day. Frighening, I'm sure. But a day when he could stretch those very long legs. When he could get some exercise and use his vocal cords to call to Miss April for help. Time when I could call to him in the pasture and have him stand quietly and wait for me to come to him. Stand with that all-too-familiar tilt of his head that I have already come to adore.

We spent most of yesterday afternoon in the pasture. Letting him move around and realize he was lost. And alone. Watching him call. And letting PONY! answer him. Watching him call again. That horse wasn't his Miss April and he wanted her! Me calling to him and then taking him - by the fly mask only! - and leading him to Miss April. Comical to see, I'm sure, since when he walks I have to run! This is one long-legged horse! But we made progress yesterday. And we'll do some of the same tomorrow and the next day. Gradually, he will learn he can be alone and still be safe. Time will help. And so will feed. And becoming familiar with the routines and the smells and sounds.

This big horse looks better to me already. His ribs are not so sharp under his hide. He has begun to shed telling me his body is processing some of the feed. The floating of his teeth has relieved the severe points in his mouth and the ulcers from their piercings can now heal. How painful it must have been to even drink water! Those ulcers were on both sides of his mouth and every single bite meant new punctures to those sores by his long pointed teeth above. I admire this horse for his gentle ways while he lived in constant pain.


And the floating gave us a grasp of his true age. He is in his late 20's. An elderly gentleman. A horse with history and stories to tell. A horse with lessons to teach. Many lessons to teach.

He is, above all else, a gentle soul. This animal lives for a human to find the time to just scratch his long face. For a hug. For a human just to stand next to him. I am hopeful that in the next month we can begin to brush him. To help that old coat be shed and his new coat arrive. The lesson learned of "off with the old and forward with the new".


Lessons learned. After thirty years in this world of rescue, I still shake my head at the lessons they teach us. I now look back at that Monday morning when Connie called and realize that it was meant that this tall, lanky, depressed horse come to Refuge Farms. He has work to do here. We have work to do with him to prepare him for his purposes here at THE FARM. The one remaining bucket we had open was meant to be filled by this horse. I cannot imagine the barns without him. Already. In two weeks. He is part of us. And he will be a leader. He is a defending sort and protective of his Miss April. We will need to teach him to co-exist and to be friendly with the other horses. And he will learn. He will learn.

As we learn. Those lessons they have to teach us. If only we will listen.


And so, on this cool evening, as I spent time with him, I leaned very close to this tall, lanky, thin horse. I leaned right into him and whispered in his ear. I told him what I have told many before him and I told him each promise with all my heart. With everything I had, I promised him those things we promise all of our Sanctuary Horses. I married him in that corral shelter this evening. And I began by saying to him . . .

Storm, I have some things to tell you. They are The Three Promises. But before I promise you those things, I first want to rename you. To give you a new name as you begin your new life. A name that reflects your soul and your spirit. A name that gives you hope and pride. A name that fits you. The first thing I am going to do is to call you Roman.

And so, Roman, let me tell you of The Three Promises. And let me tell you of Laddee, the Little Belgian Mare who has her own promise for you. Welcome, Roman. Welcome to your final home. We are happy to have you. And now, Roman, listen to me as I commit these promises to you . . .

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