Nine Happy Horses

My house is situated high on CAS property and in the middle of a horse pasture. From my back deck I can see the three cow pastures, the sheep pasture, three of our four horse pastures, the duck pond, our “special needs” area for blind duck Sassafras and his protector Succotash, one of our rabbit houses, the pig paddock, the goat pasture, three of our chicken houses. From my office window I can call out to our blind calf Helen and her devoted seeing-eye calf Rudy who, at 6:10 a.m. on a frigid April morning, are still snuggled in their barn.

Indeed, I’m a lucky woman.

The sky lightens slowly. Beyond the pond outside my back door, fifteen cows rest peacefully at the far side of their pasture. Only young Jesse stands near the pond. At nine months old, he’s still a calf, and he’s fascinated by the wild turkeys that strut and preen and peck the ground in front of him.

Athena, Fritz, and Abby stand at my deck, staring at the door. Five other horses—Mango, Mary Anne, Callie, Eloise, and Katydid—turn from the pond’s edge to join their pals. Still in their fuzzy winter coats, the horses nonetheless look good, and I’m pleased. They’ve all gained at least 200 pounds since their rescue from a Saratoga horse farm whose owner admittedly “just didn’t want to feed them.” I smile to myself, stunned that after just three days in this particular pasture the horses already have my number. They know that all they have to do is ask (and they’re doing it beautifully by simply crowding the deck and STARING at my door) and I’ll emerge, treats in hand.

I take a five-pound bag of carrots from the fridge. “Good morning, girls and boy,” I say. (Fritz was the lone boy from this particular animal rescue). I sit on the deck and a pile of rescued horses surrounds me. I’m struck by their patience and politeness as they wait for me to open the bag and dole out the orange prizes. There’s no jostling or competition—even Athena, the head honcho, allows others to cluster more closely than she. Beautiful Abby—pure white—nuzzles the top of my head as she waits. Abby is a wonderful success for Catskill Animal Sanctuary. Near death when she arrived, she could also barely walk: her hooves were a foot long and riddled with abscesses. It took over an hour for her to limp, one painful inch at a time, off the trailer when she arrived. But here she is just three months after her rescue, galloping from one end of her pasture to the next, no sign of pain.

The horses munch their treats as I tell them how fine they look. They’re grateful to be here. While skeptics would say I’m being anthropomorphic, they’d be so dead wrong. Rescued animals show their gratitude in myriad ways obvious to anyone who knows and observes them.

I wait for them to saunter off. They’ll head toward the barn, knowing that it’s nearly time for breakfast. Sure enough, after a few minutes of pats and praises, Athena turns: she has heard Lorraine exiting the kitchen with the breakfast bowls. Eight other horses eagerly follow, and another day begins at Catskill Animal Sanctuary.