Several years ago when I was younger, I bought four five-year-old Morgan horses. These horses were about as wild as horses can be, foaled on over a hundred acres and let roam. In winter they were fed on hay and corn out in the pasture. They'd never been touched by man's hand, until the day I bought them. On that day they were ran into a barn, loaded on a cattle truck, brought to my home, and unloaded in a small pen where I kept them.
Each day they grew visibly tamer, until finally I could touch them as they ate their grain and hay. At length they allowed me to pet and brush them. The halter came next, then finally the bridle and saddle--all without much fuss. But--oh! Horse Wisperer, how I could have used your skills when it came time to climb into that saddle!
A tall chestnut mare with flaxen mane had become my favorite. I chose to ride her first. Climbing onto the back of that well-developed Morgan was a lot different from taming the two-year-olds I was used to. Babies are easy to tame. Since they trust you, they seldom buck. She did! Each time I came off her, she never ran away, but stood over me instead, staring down at my prone body with curiosity in her eyes. Three times I hit the grass, but being the smart mare she was, she accepted my weight on the fourth try. Being "thirty-something" and very sore, I said "Thank you, God."
She and I went for a three-hour ride that day--up hills, over logs and through creeks, and we rode as one. I don't recall consciously teaching her to move away from my leg, or to whoa. It was she who read my body language. She learned more and faster in those three hours than any other horse I'd ever ridden. She stood calmly at the end of our ride, as I dismounted and removed the saddle and bridle. She was awesome--as if she had done this all her life.
My daughter named her Palomo, and she was a pal to me. I'd spend evenings on her back, and hours brushing her silky body and untangling her flowing mane. We talked nonsense together. her rich, horse scents would permeate my clothing, and my mother, or my daughters would remark, "You smell like a horse!"
"Yes." I'd grin. A shower would take care of that, but the comfort I found in my horses was a treasure I could wear forever.
My pastures were small and not joined. To get to one from the other you had to cross my nice, green lawn. The horses would follow me across the lawn, across the drive and down into the next pasture, and I needed no lead rope. We were tied by trust and obedience. That's not to say I didn't lose one now and then, but a call from me would usually bring them back to the rest. I realize, now, that they viewed me as the alpha mare. Their trust in me was so complete that I often had fun testing it.
One of my favorite tests was to take them through the maze of an old cattle barn which had partially collapsed. Only the lower, cement structure was left standing, and to get to this darkened underside, you had to descend three concrete steps and make a sharp turn to the left. We played like children going "in and out the window," and my clam, levelheaded, trusting Morgan's played along. Palomo had to duck her head going down the steps. DelPonti was so fat, he had to kind of side-step into the narrow passage. We then had to bend through two standing two-by-fours, hop down to the concrete floor, and exit at last into the bright outdoors. We'd then reverse the procedure, ending up again at the top of the stairs. My Morgan's passed the test.
A divorce forced me to sell my farm and horses. This was Quarter Horse country, and all shows geared to Quarter Horses. Not too many people wanted Morgan's. This coupled with the fact that my horses were afraid of strangers--I couldn't convince anyone that even my daughters, ages 10 and 8, could ride them anywhere. I couldn't bring myself to sell them at the livestock auction, and open them up to the bids of the killers. I asked a horse trader I knew to help me, and although he tried, no one wanted my Morgan's.
One evening an old truck complete with stock trailer pulled up my drive. An old man and his two grown sons asked to see the horses--said he'd just sold his dairy cows and needed something to keep the pastures clean...thought maybe he and his sons could ride them now and then. He didn't want the smaller one, and would I give him a good deal if he promised to keep the others together?
This was perfect, I thought. I didn't hesitate, because I believed they were going to a good home. I sold them at $400.00 a head--Palomo included. She eyed the rickety trailer, but followed me on. DelPonti was next. The trailer swayed and groaned, springs creaking with their weight. Only the last mare hesitated, eyeing the trailer and the man with distrust. He gently placed each front foot on the trailer, talking softly to her all the while. He's so kind, I thought.
When she was loaded, he handed me a check, asking that I not cash it until Monday, as he was expecting an insurance check. This being Friday, I didn't mind, so I agreed and went to bed happy that night. My horses had a good home. I wish the story ended here, happy-ever-after, my trust in a stranger still intact.
Saturday night I had a dream. I was standing on a board fence, my arms around Palomo's neck. Her body was caked with sweat and dust. DelPonti and the other mare were in another corner, standing front-to-back, their heads hung low. I could "feel", not see, other horses around me. The ground around my horses was bare, red clay, and they were so tired. I was sobbing tears into Palomo's mane. I could feel her warm breath brushing across my arm. "I'm so sorry." I told her "--Sorry, sorry, sorry!"
I woke up crying, and although I'd never been to the killing yards, I knew that was where my horses had gone. I knew it was too late to save them. The brazen facts of the dream were real. Then I knew why the man hadn't wanted the little one, why I'd had to wait until Monday to cash the check. My horses had never even been unloaded. He had taken them straight to the sale on Saturday morning. The check I had so willingly held was blood money--my horse's blood.
I went to work on Sunday morning. When the convenience store opened, I looked up into the eyes of the horse trader who had tried to help me sell the Morgan's. "You sold your horses, didn't you?" He asked. I nodded. "I think you should know they went to slaughter."
My eyes filled with tears, and I slowly nodded again. What I couldn't tell him--what I couldn't explain, was that I had been there with them--that I had softly caressed Palomo's neck for the last time, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
This Morgan
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