Ben's story, Part 2

I was usually sceptical of horse-person love stories, like Black Beauty or War Horse.  The child in me wanted to believe that horses remembered their people and longed to return to the ones they loved.  But, I was a realist.  I made my living training and competing horses.  I treated my animals fairly and cared for them with respect and love.  I sacrificed for them and celebrated their accomplishments.  I weeped for their pain.  But, I never entertained fantasies of tearful, nickering reunions.  You know the ones, with the horse galloping across the field to reunite with the long-lost friend?  I never allowed myself the indulgence.

Recently, I have had the incredible opportunity to rescue a horse from my childhood.  B.W. Bendigo (Ben) is an Arabian gelding that my family bred, raised and trained.  He was the first horse I got to start all on my own, from the first day of halter training to his first championship ribbon.  He followed me to college and to another state, when I began my training career.  In April, I found him at a local horse rescue, with 23 of his stable mates.  The horses had been starved within inches of their lives, left to stand in their own waste, left without water, with halter marks on their faces and blackened tar on their long hair.  Ben was in the worst shape of all.  I had never seen the bones in a horse’s neck, but I could trace Ben’s spine in his once-muscular neck.  There was little evidence of the beautiful animal he had been once.

To be honest, there was no nickering, loving reunion that first time I saw him.  Understandably, Ben was focused on eating.  He had been with the rescue a week and was eager to take advantage of the good food and care they offered.  He allowed me to check his teeth, feet and feel him all over but he hardly raised his head from the hay pile.  Still, I knew it was my horse.  It’s difficult to identify a grey horse, because their color changes as they age.  The photos I had from ten years ago didn’t look much like the aged bag of bones in front of me.   But, there was the nickel-sized white spot on his nose, the white hind foot,  the hair whorl on his forehead, the shape of his dished face, and the look in his eye.  Even after all he’d been through, he was still my Ben.

The rescue, Clawz and Pawz, were friendly and helpful.  Whether they believed my story that this was my childhood horse or not, I’m not sure.  However, they let me care for him and foster him back into health.  Maybe they were just grateful to have someone speak up and care for a 23 year old Arabian--not the easiest horses to place in new homes.  After a few weeks at the rescue, Ben came home to the barn where I board.  The barn owner there could not have been more helpful in attending to Ben’s every need.

It was a shock to see Ben amongst other healthy horses.  Boarders and lesson riders asked, “What is wrong with that skinny horse?”  Within days, he became a barn celebrity.  His friendly nature and sad story earned him lots of extra attention, under which he thrived.  After several baths, the black tar-like dirt came loose from his long hair.  By May, he finally shed his winter coat, which he’d been unable to do while he was malnourished.  He showed his spirit trotting around his pen and playing with neighboring horses.  He had his feet trimmed and his teeth floated and he began to gain weight.

Although there was no Disney movie reunion, I know that Ben remembers me.  He does nicker when I come to see him and he asks me to rub his favorite spots.  I still kiss the white spot on his nose, the way I did when we were both quite a bit younger.  It amazes me that he is still the same friendly, silly, well-mannered horse that I knew.  

When I think of Ben and his companions waiting for food, waiting and waiting, until they quit nickering and banging the stall doors, until they gave up hope, until their bodies began to shut down and their eyes became dull, until their neighbors died of starvation...  Well, it makes me sick to my stomach.  After all they’ve been through, these horses are bright-eyed, shiny-coated and ready for new life.  They don’t hold grudges or wallow in self-pity, they just get down to the business of life--eating, playing, living for the day.

Ben and his friends are lucky to have lived through such horror.  Some of their companions did not make it out of the farm.  Twenty-two other horses wait adoption and forever homes.  Their lives are forever changed by what they’ve been through and they have changed the lives of many, many volunteers.  I know I will never look at selling a horse in quite the same way and I will never overlook a suspicious situation with animals.  It is better to be cautious, ask questions and talk to authorities than to blindly trust someone.  Sometimes even well-meaning people need help and the animals cannot speak for themselves. I’ve learned quite a bit about grace, forgiveness and love from my horse, Ben.  He taught me patience when I was 17 and he is teaching me forgiveness when I am 37.  

As I write this, I want that Disney ending that always made me snort in derision.  I long to see Ben grazing in the field where he was born, with the friends from his youth.  That day will come soon enough, I assure you.   There is a lesson, a message, a moral to this story but I can’t quite see it yet.  Ben’s and my story is not over yet.  To be continued...