Every Horse is Different, But Love Runs the Same

Three horses have been in my life since I found my way back to horses after life had kept me stranded elsewhere for two decades. I still have two of them, Scout and Saxony. Dar isn't with me any longer. Those three horses are/were entirely different from one another in all the usual ways: color, size, temperament, breed and age. They differ/ed in their vulnerabilities as well. Dar had a bit of a club foot on his hind left. A grey Percheron mix, he might have gone on to sprout a melanoma at some point, as greys are susceptible to that. Scout was diagnosed with arthritis in her hocks five years after I got her. In late 2009, her alpha nature led her into a confrontation with a Wobbler's mare that ended in a shattered splint bone, surgical removal of the mess, and nine weeks of stall confinement. Now, at 14, Scout struggles with her weight. She's plump and arthritic, like me.

Loving them means understanding as much as you can about them, and that includes understanding their ailments and sensitivities. No matter the particularities of each individual, I think how you love them happens the same. Not the way you love them, but how you love them. For me, the process of my love for each horse is always the same, is powered by the same engine. I might have loved one more and another less, by degrees, but how I love and have loved them is always the same. So you study whatever the matter is, pay close attention to what the vet says, sift through forums to learn about others' experience with similar problems or conditions. You get to thinking, having immersed yourself in self-education, that you know a lot. You know they are vulnerable, that's for sure, and eventually you get used to that idea, because you have to.

Every horse is different, and so will their maladies be. That's part of what makes them individuals. Now comes Saxony, and in short order I began to discover the vulnerabilities unique to her, so different from those of Scout and Dar. The first was the inherited crookedness of her front pasterns. Many hours reading about "offset" and "paddling," many more hours deciding what to pursue in hoof care for her. Along the way, smaller discoveries, like the fact that she still has her wolf teeth (at nine years) and is fussy about her mouth being touched.

(Sidebar: For some reason, I have a strong feeling that I should try her in a bitless bridle, and I don't know why. She doesn't resist the bit or evade it, but something tells me... I don't know.)

Here is the next thing I need to understand about Saxony:

What is troubling her eyes? On Sunday, I went out with K to see her. As I brought her in to the barn, we saw yellow mucous draining from both her eyes, though more prominently on the left.

I took pictures today. On Friday, the vet comes. I can't help but wonder that this gentle mare, who expresses such deep kindness with her eyes, has in those eyes some kind of nasty sensitivity.

My love runs the same; I'll learn all that I can to keep her well. But poor her. Eyes on Friday, and after that, Monday is dentist day, wolf teeth out and a float in time for spring.

Postscript: Caring Into The Void

I felt compelled to write an e-mail to John Burns, the author of the article in the New York Times, just after I had read it the other day.

"Thank you for your heartbreaking article about the horses  of Ireland. I can't help but wonder what moved you to write it, when there are so many other points of darkness you might have chosen to illuminate with your words."

And yes, Virginia, it seems reporters sometimes care what readers think, even when they happen to be the London Bureau Chief. He wrote back:

"I saw the horses on that hill from a distance, against that twilight sky, and thought that it was a tragic metaphor for all that has gone in Ireland, for the people AND the horses. And, like all the normal, well-adjusted people I know, I am an animal lover, and feel that we humans owe, before God or Providence, a duty to look after them. I thought writing about them was the least I could do. I shall never forget the skewbald nuzzling her nose against my side in the Arctic wind, as if looking to me as the last court of appeal."

Blue (I think)

I wanted to write about what a difference a year makes, after having written earlier about what can happen in just one day. I was thinking about where I was a year ago with Scout, but... no. I kind of drifted into the day and a then a fair ways farther into it before I became aware of a sense of melancholy enveloping me. It's been a long time since I've had that feeling, a kind of almost benign sadness that might have been wifting through the air, invisible, until you just happened to bump into it. And anyone could have bumped into it, it's that random seeming.

I had stuff to do, and I did it, but I kept my mind's eye on the middle distance. Maybe I internalized a little too much worry. Lately it seems to me there are reminders everywhere about how vulnerable things are. I think sometimes it's the most natural thing in the world to want things to be just okay. There's no need to ask for the moon or the stars, but just let things be all right. I've lost count of the horses I'm reading about that are in trouble, injured, lame, suddenly unsound or worse. They all belong to fine, careful owners who see that they have the best care possible. Suddenly, everything changes. Are they really that vulnerable, these strong, amazing creatures? I guess they are.

And I guess the awareness of that must reside somewhere in us every time we are with our horses, but not so we'd know it up front at all times. It just comes as a cold shock when our horses are hurt, but we're rarely surprised. How could we be? The architecture of the horse seems a perfect example of Nature's reach exceeding her grasp. A pastern here, a stifle there, hocks, tendons, ligaments. Who would build such beauty upon such a risky foundation? Leaving us, who love them, trying to protect it. Yes, I guess I'm a little too worried and I need to get back to the place where you just live with it because not to live with it isn't an option at all.

Denali

Like others in the horse blogging world, I've been thinking of Denali and her people. There are things in their story to think about: love and commitment, love and struggle, love and letting go. There are things we'd want to say if only there really were words to end the pain. Words like that don't exist; we can only express our understanding and care, hoping it resonates enough to bring a little comfort.

Dear Denali ~

Standing frightened and confused at that auction yard, you were still a spitfire. We don't know why you ended up in that place, you who were bred to be a racehorse. But you were smart enough to cast your eye about, hoping someone would notice you and get you the hell out of there. Who knows how long you looked. Then you spotted someone who didn't even have a bidder's number. You made eye contact with her and flashed the little spark of your spirit not masked by the drugs you'd been given. Good job. You got her!

Little did she know, huh? But you did. You never won a race, but you won the lottery that day. You loaded like an angel and unloaded like the devil - there was a lot of stress to blow off. It was a risk; she could have turned that trailer right around. Somehow, you knew she wouldn't.

Little did you know, though, that your mom would start writing about you. You were that big, that beautiful, that impossible. You were that important.

One by one, people began to follow the story of you and your mom. Some could relate when she wrote about your craziness, others to reading about your spookiness. Some were inspired by your rides, others by your mom's bravery as she struggled to overcome her nerves. You were big, of course, and a hot-headed Thoroughbred mare bred for one thing and given little education for anything else. She had to take you back to the beginning. It was a journey to follow, and we did.

Some of us winced in recognition when you injured yourself or ran through walls or kicked inept would-be professionals. Always we kept our fingers crossed, because your mom had fallen so deeply in love with you. You knew that. You had long ago charmed her less-horsey husband just to seal the deal.

Many of us smiled at your slavish love of your red treat ball, your possessive nickering and your hammy temper tantrums when your mom didn't come straight to you at the barn. The bond between the two of you only deepened with time. Most of us recognized the power of that and how it helped both of you. It helped some of us, too.

But, Denali, when you reinjured yourself and the horse doctor gave your mom the news about what was really going on, we all understood. And we do. We horse lovers understand what your mom and dad are going through. We understand how they've fought for you, and we understand how they have listened to you. We understand how they care. From our distances, we do too. How could we not?

Only you know what race lies before you now, whether you'll run side by side with your great forebears, Secretariat and Seattle Slew, or you'll happily chase that red treat ball forever. What we know, though, Denali, is what you gave your mom. You gave her strength. You gave her humor. You gave her a community. We hope that one day the memory of you will give her peace.

Postscript Molly

Molly comes home tomorrow. This sweet, sensitive mare, always bonded to whatever boy is nearby, always  maintaining her girlish figure, got lucky. The DMSO treatment has worked wonders to speed the healing of her injured nerve(s), the full-leg splint has been removed, and now we wait to learn what her home care will consist of. Everyone wants to help her recover fully before winter arrives. We're all so relieved and eager to have her back.

This was the first time I was the person to discover an injured horse. I think I handled it all right for a first-timer, but it was hard for me to stand the pain she was feeling; I wanted help to come faster than it could. I felt desperate to help her, and it took some time to accept that nearness and touch were all I had to give her in that distant pasture.