During the fall and early winter of 2009, with my best friend, C, and daughter, Ten (now Twelve), I committed to a massive undertaking. It is no small task to assume responsibility for the lives of others, for their faults, defeats, and utter failings as human beings. Taking responsibility for the hungry, sick, and suffering in the midst of world-wide economic crisis with tentacles threatening to drown you in the waves of financial uncertainty, is at the very least a brush with insanity, but at the very best a revelation of human soul and decency.
It started with Sergeant Pepper, not his band, but a goat named Pepper. The Craig's List ad read something to effect of a northern New Mexico family had decided they wanted to “collect” a different kind of goat; thereby, Pepper needed a new home. My beloved animal advocate, C, found herself aptly appalled. The ad declared Pepper might make a perfect rodeo goat. I suppose if Pepper grew up with a rodeo clown instead of being bottle fed by children, the story might sound somewhat less callous. If Pepper knew the ropes, so to speak, of bolting around an arena evading the pounding hooves of a racing equine and rope-wielding cowboy, perhaps C’s eyes might not have locked on. Fact is though, Pepper knew the inside of a family home, not the rodeo grounds, and literarily grew up in the arms of loving children.
Before I knew it, we set to constructing a goat pen. As the saying goes, one thing leads to another.
In December, along came Rasta. His owner called him Snowflake. She gave him a light airy name to match his beautiful white coat, as if this summed up his existence. If possible, I’d grant the owner ignorance, but she knew damn well better when she posted the ad seeking a new home for Snowflake. C came across the ad months earlier and attempted starting a dialogue with her, asking about the situation, needs, and what could be done to help. The owner seemed reluctant to communicate, perhaps aware that she caught the eye of a true animal advocate, which could lead to troubles for her regarding this particular Shetland pony. For months she evaded C’s inquiries, but finally due to circumstances, likely financial, surrendered to C’s persistence.
Days before Christmas, Snowflake, already re-named Rasta, arrived via a professional equine transporter hired to move him from a distant New Mexico county to our small country property in Santa Fe. As I peeked into the small horse trailer, those huge gorgeous black eyes gazed back into mine. He’d just made a journey of many hours and miles. The transporter had also seen the ad months before and made inquiries about the Shetland in need of a new home. She found the owner reluctant to deal with her as well, perhaps because she primarily transported for equine vets and experience had surely taught her the plight of neglected ponies. “Pathetic conditions,” she reported. “This poor pony.”
Not many years into the business of caring for and owning horses, I’d only heard of the condition, not actually seen, or understood the consequences of foundered, particularly a case neglected for years. The transporter guided the Shetland from the trailer. Only our second rescue and we stepped into the worst-case scenario. His four small feet were twisted with hooves well over grown, mangled by unmanaged disease. In our naiveté we felt we could treat him, proper care and love might help heal, then again, in our hearts, C and I knew better. Your human mind wants to rationalize and correct, but you know instinctually something has gone on far too long, you understand the necessity of freedom from pain and suffering. And here you thought I was just writing about some animal rescue in northern New Mexico.
Nothing could be further from the truth. I suspect if you’ve read this far you already know this. And if you’ve read our postings in emails, our website, or on our Facebook page, you know what happened here. The next day, after Rasta’s arrival on our small ranch, tragedy struck; tragedy comes without warning, hence the shock of her nature, the circumstances in which she embraces us, like Mother Nature, unpredictable and uncompromising.
I delivered Ten to school and returned home with Rudy and Cowboy. Rudy is a German Shepherd, the caretaker of Ten, since she was five. His duty, as I taught him and instinct made him, is to protect his girl, his property, and the tenants of this land. Cowboy is a pit-bull mix rescued from Espanola, New Mexico. I’m not sure what happened that morning as I allowed Cowboy to do morning rounds with Ru, but something unsuspected, out of the ordinary—a tragedy, a blend of fate, a lesson in dignity, kindness, giving, and profound heartbreak.
From a daydream slumber, I wondered to the sunroom, something didn’t feel right. Closing in on the exterior room, something didn’t sound right. From a distance came fierce barking. Swinging the door open to the yard, I called to the dogs. I saw Rudy running the fence line to the pens, signaling something wrong in his domain. He knows the rules of this property by nature. I called again louder, then knew something had gone terribly wrong, or as nature might have it, God might have it, if you will, something terribly right. In retrospect, sometimes we can understand tragedy this way, make right of wrongs, correct unforgiving courses, change the world in which we live. That’s the kind of tragedy that morning delivered us, a devastating, heartbreaking, do the right thing for God’s sake kind of tragedy. As painful as it is sometimes the right thing is a challenge to everything we thought, our ideals, wants, needs, denied for something bigger than we imagined as we embraced the notion of bringing home a rescued pony for Christmas.
Curses came to mind as I thought of sending Ten down to meet Rasta that morning. I thought of the girl I was, remembered crying over a mouse who ate poison set out by my grandfather at the grandparent’s summer retreat. The family dog walked up and released it from its misery and I, about ten at the time, burst into tears. Life went so fast. I didn’t understand the mouse was already dying, just saw life ending in a flash. I recalled my grandparents and aunt assuring me Winnie, a Beagle mix, had done the right thing by the mouse.
In the wild the weak, injured, and suffering are identified. Cowboy identified Rasta’s plight. We were mortified as we raced to the stalls. Rasta’s injuries were slight, but his fear and desperate need for human intervention profound. C wrapped him in her scarf and jacket and embraced him in her arms. I returned to the house to call Thal Equine Veterinary Hospital. Coincidentally, the best equine vet in Northern New Mexico sits less than a mile from our property. Two vets were on site in short order. They confirmed that Cowboy’s welcoming, though unfriendly, caused no serious harm, but I remember distinctly the statement, “What about his feet?” They affirmed then what we knew, not from experience with foundered horses, or reading up on the subject, but in our hearts. Rasta lived in uncompromising pain, utterly uncorrectable after unimaginable years of neglect.
Circumstances led to a necessary decision in less than twenty-four hours. We inherited the responsibility of another owner’s failures, and a heartbreaking choice. C held Rasta a little longer then whispered a loving good-bye. She returned to the house and I checked with the vets one last time, just to be certain. Rasta needed to be free.
The gentle hands of caring vets humanely released a princely spirit from a body wrought with injury, from years of, as one described, excruciating pain. We cried for hours, cried for his suffering, the neglect inflicted by humans. Tears inevitably surrendered to duty, a responsibility we assumed on behalf of a handsome boy. He wore a beautiful white coat and a Rastafarian mane. He truly looked and behaved as a prince, handsome and brave.
That evening I walked down to the horses alone. I apologized to them for the tragedy they witnessed. Though not indifferent to the occurrences of that morning they seemed oddly distracted. I entered the barn to gather hay and grain then heard the pounding of small hooves. I glanced outside. Scarlet and Dancer, our two horses waited simply for their food, along with Sergeant Pepper and his companion goat Moon. I returned to the bales. A rushing sound went by like a pocket of wind. I turned catching a glimpse of white, too big to be a rabbit. I thought Sgt. Pepper might have escaped his pen. No, he stood waiting, as before. Again hooves pranced by with another flash of white soaring happily. Dare I say, Rasta embraced his freedom. His spirit celebrated his release and he made certain that I heard and saw him, so C, Ten, and I would know, although we felt our hearts broken, he found his wings.
In conversations that followed and tears that still swelled, in honor of a handsome prince destined to enter our lives Rasta’s Rescue Ranch, once an idea discussed, took form and flight.
