The people who starved and neglected my horse were found guilty in the court of law and found dead by a violent fire on the same day. Writing that sentence feels so bizarre, almost as bizarre as the entire situation. Two years ago, a horse I had bred, birthed, raised, trained, showed, and sold to a loving family was rescued from the brink of death, starved and neglected within inches of his life. My friend, Jen, called me that fateful day, “Linda, I think I just rescued Ben. I just wanted you to know that he’s in good hands. He will be OK.”
The horse I saw when I visited the rescue was almost unrecognizable. I’ve lived with horses my entire life, seen them born and die, seen them healthy and sick, and I have never seen one in such poor condition. The width of my hand could disappear between his ribs, his hips were like tent stakes with sagging skin between them, and I could trace the bones in his neck. His gray fur was matted with a tar-like substance, nearly impossible to remove. He was polite and reserved when I entered his stall, barely looking up from his hay. But he had the long whorl of hair between his eyes, a little longer and lower than most horses forehead whorls. And he had the little white spot on his nose, about the size of a dime, just a little bit off-center to the left. I had kissed that spot on his nose nearly every day for many, many years. Now, it was the mark that proved my childhood friend had returned to me.
The twenty-three horses rescued from the farm were all in sad shape, but Ben’s condition was especially dire. It takes a long, long time to starve a horse to death, and when the animals were rescued, there were several corpses of fallen comrades lying in the stalls. Ben was twenty-three years old, tough and determined, but the rescuers estimated he wouldn’t have lasted another week without food or water. Lucky for us, he was lively and eager to regain his strength. Given care and food, he and the other horses bounced back to life.
As rescue workers and volunteers nursed the horses back to health, the wheels of justice began turning slowly. The owners of the farm did not immediately give up the animals; they fought the charges for a few months. Eventually, justice, good sense, or lack of money won out, and the animals became custody of the village of Pleasant Prairie. On the 4th of July, Ben was mine again.
It’s funny to say “mine again”, because it felt like he was mine all the time. If a rider is lucky, one or two horses truly become her partner. Ben was one of mine. I was 14 when he was born and 17 when I started him under saddle. I had started a couple of other horses by this time, but he was truly MY project. For the first 3 years of his riding life, I was the only person on his back. Horsemen talk about a thing called “feel”. Feel is difficult to define, but the best definition is the connection between horse and rider. It can be physical connection, between the seat, legs and reins. Sometimes one can have a “feel of” a horse without even touching him. One cannot achieve harmony, or even communicate without a nice, soft feel. Feel is not taught, but learned; it grows organically out of time, patience and attention to each other. Ben was the first horse I trained thoughtfully and got a true “feel of” the horse, and I was the first rider he “got the feel of”. For better or worse, Ben and I created each other’s feel.
He was my companion, my partner, my frustration, my pride, my “big deal” for my teenage years. As my ambitions grew greater, I sold Ben to a nice family who loved him. As he grew older and stiffer and their girls moved on to other things, they told me they’d found him a good home, on a farm where he would give lessons and be well-cared for. Something went terribly, terribly wrong. Animals died and people denied it.
Thanks to the care of the Pleasant Prairie police department, Ben is now healthy and happy, living out the rest of his days on the Ohio farm where he was born. He roams the hills of his birth, with a herd of pasture mates, on the very space where his mother and friends have passed away before him. Ben and I got our happy, Disney-story ending. http://lindaloumiz.blogspot.com/2013/08/bens-journey-home.html
The wheels of justice turn very slowly indeed. Almost two years after the animals were found, the owners of the farm were on trial. Finally, lawyers selected a jury and made their arguments. Although I couldn’t attend the trial, the detective sent me email updates on the progress. On the morning the guilty verdict came down, the defendants were not in the courtroom. Their bodies were found in their burned-out farmhouse. After investigation, detectives ruled the deaths as suicide. http://racineuncovered.org/2015/03/pleasant-prairie-couples-death-ruled-homicidesuicide-dog-was-also-shot/
I wish I could make meaning out of these tragic events. I wish I could chalk it up to karma or find satisfaction in a violent end. I wish I could pray for their souls and forgive them. The only meaning I can find is acceptance. Terrible things happen to innocent beings. People are horribly flawed and broken, and wreak havoc on the world. We all do the best we can and thank God for the small victories. When I look out on Ben peacefully grazing the Ohio hills, fat, furry and happy, I shake my head and count my blessings.
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