Horses
Five layers of fleece and wool had seemed sufficient for a day in early October, even at 9300’ feet in Colorado, but the wind scouring the plains had cut through all five like a polar bear attacking a salmon. I was freezing. There is something about weather that can kill you. It feels like a predator stalking prey. I wouldn’t have lasted through the night here, even in October. The woman with me had a warm enough coat, but she took off her gloves to feed the frightened and wary mustangs by hand. I decided the gals would have to live with gloves if they wanted the hay I held. My fingers were already stiff inside the gloves. They weren’t going to move at all outside them.
The mustangs were recent arrivals, saved from the unpleasant fate that awaited them from the US government. They knew only they had no reason to like people, until the woman had shown up to feed them patiently day by day and haul away the muck and talk quietly to them and slowly make the case for humankind. They were not convinced, but they had become less frightened even though they had only a small coral and not the wide-open plains. There would be time for more room, but for now had she let them out there would have been no way to catch them for vaccines or hoof care or routine vet visits. They needed socializing first. This was The Middle Way Animal Sanctuary, a tiny nonprofit in Hartsel, CO. Somehow, they had raised the money to buy the mustangs.
I had just met 15 horses, one by one, all of whom except for the three mustangs were broken down, throw-away horses, according to the accounting of the world at large. One had a huge permanent lump in her shoulder area, the results of a broken shoulder. She could not carry the weight of a rider or a foal. What good was she? Another was raised to race but too slow. Besides, her owner had discovered how cruel racing is to horses and had not wanted to be a part of it. Racing is truly not a kind sport, and she was traumatized. Another had hoofs that broke down if she was used for riding. She was, apparently, the Bill Walton of the horse world, hoofs not strong enough for her body. There were horses with crooked legs and bad hoofs and bad joints and so many injuries, so very many injuries. One had somehow been impaled and had a deep, permanent indentation in her side. They had injuries that meant they could not be ridden or raced, and some could not carry foals or father them. What good were they?
There are more owners than one can count who would have just put them down, but the owners of these horses, many of whom could not afford to keep them, found this place and brought them here. Here they were valued and loved, and their large doe eyes were not frightened or in pain. They were fat and healthy, looked over by a dedicated vet and a trainer/rider both of whom supplemented with their own money what the tiny nonprofit could raise. The vet kept working past the point she wanted to cut back. The trainer had a side customer service job. Neither was paid for taking care of 15 horses. They paid for the horses instead.
Kentucky thoroughbreds have heated barns and air conditioning in the summer. These horses had a few three-sided shacks, set against the wind. The sanctuary had to raise the money to run electricity out to the mustang corral before winter, the trainer said, or their water would freeze up. (This wasn’t winter?)
It was 5 o’clock, and the plains were getting dark. The trainer moved slowly. Covid had stopped here too, and she was a long hauler with breathing problems, dizziness, brain fog, fatigue, and a host of other symptoms sapping her strength. I once had a single horse to care for in the New Hampshire winter. I was young and strong, and it nearly killed me: getting up every day early and going down to the barn before work to feed and muck manure and make sure the water hadn’t frozen. Every day. There are no days off when you have horses. I had one. They have 15. The trainer’s customer service job had placed her on leave. She could not concentrate because of the impact of Covid and kept making mistakes. She said she felt her head was clear, but the evidence was everywhere it wasn’t. She left tasks and then never remembered to return to them. But here she was, feeding horses, mucking out stalls, talking softly to frightened animals on a bitter cold evening that left me longing for a warm car.
I know grace when I see it. I have a cousin who thinks that Jesus Christ is present in places like this in people like this. I do not share the comfort of belief, but what he calls the presence of Christ I call moments of grace, people of grace. We have different languages, but we see the same thing. These people, who cannot bear to see an animal hurt or discarded or killed for no reason except they are no longer useful to people. These people, who look into the soft, warm eyes of a damaged horse and see a live and loving soul who deserves a chance to live out their days. These people . . .
