Out of the Darkness

"I'm so sorry," she uttered apologetically, "it is time to make a decision." I heard the words, words I had anticipated, but dreaded.

A year earlier I answered an appeal for volunteers to help feed a herd of 30 horses seized in a terrible hoarding situation. As they had been food deprived for an extended time, they required four small feedings a day to aid their fragile digestive systems. About twenty volunteers met at the facility, a large equine clinic to see the horses and define schedules.

A vet and an assistant greeted us, and guided us into a large barn. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. These were the worst among the survivors. The vet stated there were several that had not survived. Nine in all, five under one year old, and four emaciated, broken adults, patches of fur missing, either from bites, or abrasions where bone abraded earth. One struggled to stand up, but failed.

Outside were two large paddocks with shelters, one held twelve mares, the other 9 geldings and stallions. February, a bitter, frigid wind permeated layers of protection, I felt guilty as I watched them endure the relentless cold. The vet continued, "We received a tip from a neighbor. They were all kept together in an open field. There was no shelter, only frozen, barren ground, they had eaten the roots, and were chewing the bark off the trees." I was simultaneously disgusted and furious, that any 'human' could justify this. He must have heard my expletives, as he added, "Charges have been brought." Some of the volunteers sobbed quietly. I controlled my frustration.

Almost all animal hoarding situations begin with the best of intentions, but costs often exceed good judgement. Shame and embarrassment prolong the inevitable. For this group, the 'real' rescue had begun.

The mares were stoic, back to the wind, head down, waiting for another portion to warm their bellies. The boys stood quietly in groups, with one exception; a stunning mahogany stallion, black mane and tail, and four white stockings (stockings are up to the knee, socks, to the ankles). He was thin but full of energy, charging the fences, harassing the others. "When he's stronger, he will be gelded." The vet quipped. "That will calm him down." It was a welcome light moment to what we were witnessing.

We listened and learned the importance of rationing. Schedules were established, we would begin tomorrow, working in groups of three for each feeding. Some of us came twice a day. Those more experienced with horses were designated to the boys. We never went into the paddock, just put down a bowl, wait for a horse to come, then put down another, about ten feet away. We took them out when empty, using a rake if the bowl had been moved. Even in their condition, each horse stayed with their dish, by the time the last one was down, the first one was empty. There was an occasional need to 'referee' the overeaters.

They were all colors, breeds and ages. Their collection had been obviously random.

They had no names. Obscure, forgotten, without identity, but universal among them, they once had names, a home, a purpose. As many as there were, so were the possible circumstances that brought them to this end.

Among the mares was a small, black girl with tiny feet and a graceful manner. I focused on her more and more, even though there were beautiful bays, reds and paints, black was my favorite.

One morning after I presented her dish, I let my hand stay on the fence rail. She lifted her head, looked at me, and touched my hand with her nose. In that moment, she became mine. The vet had estimated her age to be about 17, and thought she was probably a jumper, used competitively, as there was arthritis, and evidence of an old hip injury. Her riding days were over. It did not matter to me.

She needed a name, one that described her. She was too refined (and mature) for a cute nickname so I considered a ballerina name to go with those tiny feet, but nothing stuck. I searched media, games, movie characters to no avail. I resorted to Biblical names, alphabetically. There, at Q, was "The Queen of Sheba." I remembered her story. An actual historic figure, she ruled in Ethiopia during the reign of King Solomon, but she never was referred to by a name, simply "The Queen of Sheba." It was perfect, and so 'Sheba' she would be.

The only other horse given a name was the wild stallion. Someone called him 'Jasper.' He routinely terrorized the geldings and broke through fences he could not vault over. I thought Atilla or Ghengis Khan was more fitting. The horses continued improving, other volunteers had committed to their chosen adoptees. It was rewarding, and inspiring.

One day, the pastures were unusually quiet. Jasper was not there. I did not ask where he was, I feared the answer. What horrors had he endured to make him into what he was? We would never know the history of any of them, why some became frightful, introverted, reactive, or just dead inside. Knowledgeable hands would hopefully cultivate their healing. I later learned Jasper had sustained a serious wound attempting to jump a fence. He did not survive.

Whenever I went to feed, I always whispered her name to Sheba. Did she know? I had no clue.

Spring was rapidly becoming summer, and many of the horses were ready to go to their new homes. A volunteer, Sadie, offered to trailer Sheba home to my farm. The day arrived. On that particular day, there was an 'Open House' welcoming anyone interested in adoption to visit. There were at least two dozen prospects, I silently hoped all the horses would find homes.

Sadie backed the trailer up to the paddock gate, walked up to me and said, "OK Mom, go get her." Go get her? How? OMG, I barely even touched her through the fence, my silent thoughts ricocheted in my head, all eyes upon me. I was really a novice compared to those who had horses all their life. I had NO IDEA how to 'go' get her, but it was the moment of truth, as they say. "What if one of the other mares doesn't like me?" the question remained silent. Halter and lead in hand, I resolved to deal with whatever in the moment. I avoided eye contact, making my way to her, halfway out into the area. I stopped about four feet from her and said, "Come on, Sheba, we're going home." I figured the next challenge would be putting the halter on, but she took two steps toward me, I turned, and she followed back to the gate. It was a moment I shall never forget. She knew, I know she knew. I was elated and simultaneously heartbroken that such intelligence ended up as she had. At the gate I thought I should try my luck. I held out the halter, she bowed her head for me to secure it. Sadie said, "Don't stop now, lead her on." "Oh, REALLY? I have never done this..." more silent words, I smiled as if I did it every day. She walked up the ramp and stopped in place like a pro. There was not a dry eye in attendance. My heart rate would not return to normal for hours.

Home. She met my gelding without incident, it was a good day. Sheba was easy, willing, cooperative and very intelligent. Her coat shined like obsidian, her movement fluid, I loved watching her. She was a perfect companion. Summer waned, the days were shorter. One evening as I watched them eat, she suddenly thrust her head straight up, her eyes widened, she trembled, and fell to the ground. After a few seconds, she stood up, shook off, and went back to eating. WTF was that? Did she bite into something? Was it a sting? I was horrified. She seemed fine. This was NOT normal. I prayed it would not happen again. I called my vet. It would be three days before she could come. I watched her closely, the thrill had waned, replaced by ominous concern. During the next two days, she had two more events, that I saw.

My vet gave her a thorough exam and drew blood samples, but did not expect to find much as she had been tested before she came home. We talked about possibilities, none of them minor. Sheba stood there, as if a part of the discussion. In that moment, I noticed something, "Does her eye look like it is bulging?" I asked. She looked closely, one side, then the other, and again. "There is no redness or inflammation, but yes, the eye is bulging." There was a negative inflection in her voice. "Given the seizure episodes, it may be a brain tumor. We should watch her, closely." I told her I would be in touch, she left. I stood there a long time trying to reconcile what I just heard. She had recovered. Against enormous odds, she survived. She was loved, happy. It played in my head, over and over, as if in another language, it made no sense. I was numb.

Over the next few weeks, Sheba had more seizures, they lasted longer, a few times she did not get up for awhile. Rationally, I knew there was no better place for her than here, and if this was the end for her, her last memory would be a positive one. However, there was nothing rational about this situation. My feelings were not a priority, I resolved to do what was best for her.

I had the vet come back the following week. A question I hadn't asked was whether she was in pain. "Very likely intense pain during an episode, it will get worse, perhaps all the time. She could lose her vision." Without X-rays and perhaps further testing, we would not know all the details, but by now, the eye was bulging more. She had endured enough pain and suffering before I knew her. It would be selfish tolet it continue. I made the decision to let her go.

She was buried in her pasture, where the morning sun shone first. For weeks, I looked out, envisioning her there. I have had and lost many pets, nearly all passed of old age. This was different, too abrupt, too senseless, irreconcilable.

Four months passed. My gelding wandered aimlessly, looking wistfully at the cattle on the adjacent farm. I sensed his loneliness. It was time to find him another companion. I had only one requirement: A Black horse, it must be.

What I thought would be a simple search became a crusade. There were NO black horses for sale in my price range in a reasonable travel distance. One, a Fell pony mare, was priced more than what I had considered, but I decided to do some research. "A stout pony breed, often used to pull carriages, and a favorite of the Queen of England, 90% are solid black." I called. She was sold. The ad was three days old. The owner stated they are great horses, and rather in short supply in the U.S. I continued to check the ads every few days, then on a dismal Sunday morning, there was an ad, "Fell pony gelding, rare gray, ten years old. One owner, no vices (bad habits)." I called, and made an appointment to go see him on Monday. A Black horse it must be, was gray a waste of time? Probably.

The entire drive I considered turning around and going home, but as I approached the farm, two black horses in the front pasture renewed my interest. A slender woman in riding gear greeted me. I commented on her British accent, she replied, "We all have a British accent, we came here from there two years ago." I asked about the two horses I had seen. "That is Molly, my brood mare, and Maggie, her yearling. Maggie will be sold when she is four. The boy is this way, his name is Danny." A voice in my head repeated, "A Black horse it must be."

And there he was, not dark gray, not medium gray, white, white as an August cloud. His feet were the size of pie plates, I remembered Sheba's ballerina feet. This was not for me, it was a waste of time... Before I could make an excuse and a respectable exit, she said, "Go ahead, take him for a ride." Suddenly, my mind flashed to the day I took Sheba home, Sadie's words, "Go get her." WHY would I think of that now? Perhaps after a quick ride I would have a viable reason to say, "Not for me." But, no, he responded to every ask, every subtle movement, it was like riding a recliner. I dismounted, he stood firm, then followed me. If I stopped, he stopped, I turned, he followed. It was a dance. I could not imagine how he could do it with those enormous feet.

"A Black horse it must be," but you are perfect in every way. My heart told my eyes, "Be still, I shall prevail." It was a sign to come out of the darkness, and into the light.

Danny has been with me nine years. I think of Sheba often, she was not 'A' black horse, she was 'THE' Black horse.

Love and loss, joy and sorrow, labor and laughter fill our hearts with the memories that make us whole.