When Andy, a yearling Appaloosa, arrived last week, he collapsed to the ground when he stepped off the trailer. We lifted him gently—this young boy who should weigh 700 pounds weighs at best half that—and he inched forward on wobbly legs to his stall.

In starvation cases, a rating system known as the “Henneke Scale” is used by veterinarians to describe horses’ body conditions. Horses are rated between “1” and “9” on the scale, with “1” being the worst possible score for an animal that’s still alive--a score that represents extreme emaciation. Andy was called an “extreme 1.”

Andy has been so starved for so long that we’re concerned that his body might be shutting down. Instead of manure, he passes water. His urine is dark. He leans against the stall wall to support himself. Andy’s owner, a breeder from Poughkeepsie, has been arrested and charged with four counts of cruelty. While the courts play out her fate, we will do everything we can to heal this lovely boy, who already senses that Catskill Animal Sanctuary is a safe place. After just two days, he wobbles on unsteady legs to his front wall, leans out, and nibbles a hat or a cheek. Too weak to muster a full whinny, he tries to call out “hello” to everyone he sees.

He’s a trooper. And we’re rooting for him.

Catskill Animal Sanctuary has lost a beloved friend. Dino, our first resident, passed away peacefully in his stall at 11:30 am on Wednesday, August 15, his head in the lap of April Harrison, one of many human friends and caretakers. The tiny pony was in his forties. We will miss him terribly.

Dino captivated New York City in 2000 when he survived an arsonist’s fire at the Bergen Beach Stables in Brooklyn. While over twenty other horses died, Dino, ancient and weighing under 300 pounds, kicked fiercely at his stall door after the flaming ceiling collapsed on him. The door fell; firemen rushed in and pulled Dino to safety. Dramatic photos of the fire ran in city papers, including one of a fireman giving oxygen to Dino. (I believe photos of Dino after that fire might still be available if you google "bergen beach stable fire, dino" or something like that.)

Dino’s wounds were profound and included severe burns over most of his body, the loss of vision in one eye, and permanent lung and throat damage. His former owner struggled for weeks over whether to euthanize him, because Dino’s progress was slow. But it soon became clear that Dino wanted to live—small in stature, Dino had the heart of a giant. So for months he remained on oxygen while his skin healed and hair grew back.

Catskill Animal Sanctuary officially opened when Dino arrived in January of 2001. In my book Where the Blind Horse Sings: Love and Healing at an Animal Sanctuary, I describe his first weeks in the chapter titled Dino Finds a Friend:

Though his life-threatening wounds had healed, Dino’s psyche had not. Day and night, Dino stood alone in his pasture, indifferent to his pasture mates. We humans loved him, groomed him, gave him what few treats were safe—mostly finely chopped fruit, as age had taken nearly all of his chewing teeth. We talked, we sang, we brushed, we kissed. Dino stood passively, his head lowered....the fire, it seemed, had taken not only his friends, but also his spirit.

Happily, though, soon after Dino arrived, a terrified blind horse named Buddy came, and a deep friendship soon blossomed. We smiled as we watched the two graze side by side, or saw them napping together, Dino’s head generally under Buddy’s tail—evidently to keep the flies away. With flattened ears, Dino promptly ushered out cats or wild birds who wandered into his field. “Don’t come near my friend,” he threatened. Dino reveled in caring for his blind pal.

For nearly seven years, Dino was one of our most beloved ambassadors. Of the thousands of people who visit CAS, many, particularly children, came time and time again to see him, drawn by his story, his quiet strength.

Despite his compromised health, Dino always made it clear that he loved simply being alive. We often said to each other, “This little guy wants every last breath that life will give him.”
In the end, though, Dino’s esophagus, filled with scar tissue from the fire, gave out. In the last few years, we had replaced hay, which caused Dino to choke, with frequent, small, soaked meals. On Wednesday, even that was too much. His food lodged in his esophagus, and not even multiple attempts by skilled vet Heather O’Leary could dislodge it.

Dino was humanely euthanized in his stall, surrounded by those who loved him: Rambo the sheep, Big Ted the draft horse, and a dozen caretakers. It took a full-horse size injection to stop Dino’s heart. “Of course,” Dr. O’Leary said softly. “You’re a big guy...you want us to remember that.”

Catskill Animal Sanctuary is currently raising funds to support the ongoing and costly care of its permanent senior residents. The drive, called the Old Friends Fund, has been renamed The Dino Drive in honor of a toothless, arthritic old pony who modeled for everyone he knew the value of enjoying each precious moment.

A memorial service will be held; we will publish the date as soon as we know it. In the meantime, just a day after his death, Dino’s stall is already a shrine filled with flowers, photos, and notes from people who loved him.

He's still a bag of bones, this little fart. Still wobbly on his feet...but less so. He's gained perhaps 30 pounds, but Andy is so skeletal--picture an equine version of a Holocaust victim--that there's no point trying to use a weight tape: his condition will skew the results, according to the vet.

Little Andy, white with brown spots, is on a special refeeding program. One has to refeed with caution: small frequent meals of hay only, gradually increasing the amount, decreasing the frequency, and eventually adding small quantities of grain. How delighted he must be to know that nearly as soon as he finishes a flake of hay, another one is coming!! And how delighted he seems to be with the attention he receives: the kisses, the gentle words, the grooming, the encouragement. All this despite the fact that he's in quarantine, so that we must wear gloves, bleach our feet entering and exiting his stall, disinfect grooming tools. And yet this extra work is one of the greatest joys of the work we do. Walt, Lorraine, April, Alex--any of us will tell you what a great joy it is to participate in the healing of a broken animal--to say with every word, touch, gesture, "You're okay here, Andy. You're okay, boy."

Andy is definitely standing more solidly on his pitiful pogo-stick legs. And it could be wishful thinking, but I swear his whinny is getting stronger.

We await the results of his blood work. And Andy awaits his first adventure: a walk outside to explore his new world at Catskill Animal Sanctuary--a far cry from the nightmare that cruelty investigators found him in.

For a week after his death, tributes to our friend Dino poured in: e-mails, cards, and letters. In his stall, Lorraine erected a hay-bail shrine upon which his many fans placed their offerings: flowers, carrots and apples, a hand-painted sign reading "Dino's Bliss Was Here," jars of applesauce--the only treat we could give him (unless we were willing to pre-chew carrots and apples). Julie placed a notebook outside his stall for people's remembrances, and the pages filled.

A week later, though (the same day Dino's ashes arrived) we had to deconstruct the shrine, for we needed Dino's stall for a mama pig and her four piglets found in the house of an animal hoarder. It was time, anyway. Dino, such an unassuming guy, would have thought all the fuss rather silly.

Today, an unexpected tribute arrived from a Brooklyn police officer who knew Dino well. We have invited the officer to speak at Dino's memorial on Saturday, September 8. How I hope he (she?) will come.

Here's the letter:

A friend sent me two lovely and heartbreaking articles detailing the passing of that mighty little pony Dino and as I write to you my face is still wet with tears.

You see, the 21 horses who died in that terrible stable fire 7 years ago were all my friends. The New York City Dept. of Parks and Recreation Brooklyn Mounted Unit had our office on the stable property and each day we turned out of that barn. Our borough command was small and I, as a corporal, was the ranking officer for that station.

But we did not simply work there, we socialized with all the horse owners, had barbeques, rode until the light was gone. That barn was our lives.

My command lost two mounts that night but more than that, we all lost so many equine friends.

Three horses made it out of that incendiary hell: Tiffany, the show pony of a local girl, a mare, whose name I have sadly forgotten (Jenny?) but whose owners took home to graze and regroup on their own lawn (Kathy's note: we heard she died shortly after the fire) and Dino, the absolute favorite of all who met him.

I got to the barn when the fire was still blazing and there was little to do xcept stand back and let the firemen do what they could. When the blazes were out so many were gone but out in the farthest corner of the ring,our vet, Dr. Farrell, and the doctor/son-in-law of the owner of the barn were tending to the two ponies. I suggested that the ponies be transported to the NYPD
Mounted Unit facility in Coney Island and the vet agreed. After obtaining permission from my sergeant, my partner and I loaded the injured and badly shocked ponies into the Parks' two-horse trailer. Tiffany could hardly stand, although it was Dino who was in dramatically poorer shape.

I drove as my partner, Laura Teeple, struggled to hold two small horses upright in the back of the trailer. She would call to me if I were going too fast and I shouted to her before making any turn. We made very slow progress and the six mile ride seemed interminable.

We arrived at Troop E safely, guided the ponies up the steep ramp and into stalls where they both began their recoveries.

Sometime around 2003 I heard news that Tiffany had died. She remained a show pony for that little girl and was well cared for and loved. But colic took her as it does so many horses.

The story of Dino's passing touched me deeply. That tragic night has always stayed with me and in some ways, has shaped my life. To know that no matter how we tend and nurture, how ever much we love, that life is transient after all.

It does bring me comfort to know I did the very best I could that night and even more to see that the Catskill Animal Sanctuary picked up where we in Brooklyn left off. Thank you for everything you do.

Respectfully to all involved,

Jessie Cowan

In this week's Saugerties Times (publication date August 31), reporter Will Dendis wrote a lovely article on the life and death of little Dino titled "Requiem for an Equine."

The final paragraph of Dendis' article reads:

"Perhaps Dino's story as related by Stevens might sound a tad anthropomorphic, a case of an animal lover projecting human qualities onto the dramatic life of a very old pony. But the strong reaction and pure volume of outpouring over his death means at least one thing: this little pony had a lot of friends."

I have a hard time with the concept of anthropomorphism. I work with animals every single day. They arrive at Catskill Animal Sanctuary broken and fearful, and over time, we watch them blossom--often into enormous and unforgettable characters. Interestingly, the process is similar from animal to animal: first they trust their caretakers--those who give them food, shelter and love day after day. Then we watch in delight as they generalize to visitors. Indeed, there is no greater joy than participating in the transformation of these broken spirits, and watching them evolve as dark memories are replaced by consistent positive experience.

How is it that so many people use the term "anthropomorphism" so freely? The impetus for my book Where the Blind Horse Sings: Love and Healing at an Animal Sanctuary was the startling similarity in the emotional lives of humans and animals. Ask anyone at Catskill Animal Sanctuary or come visit or volunteer and discover for yourself: we'd be hard-pressed to name an emotion that animals don't possess. They display love, tenderness, joy, curiosity, impatience, anger, jealousy, grief and a host of other emotions generally considered the domain of humans. The greatest among the animals display things like courage and compassion. Just ask any of us about our sheep named Rambo, whose lessons merited five full chapters of my book.

When I told your reporter that Dino had an indomitable will to live, he concluded that I might be "a tad anthropmorphic." But how else would one describe the sole survivor of an arson to which 23 horses larger and younger than Dino succumbed? How else would one describe an ancient, severely arthritic, partially blind pony with extremely limited lung capacity and a throat so filled with scar tissue that swallowing was difficult? When one has seen animals with fewer health issues give up and allow death to come, what other words would describe a pony who, despite all these challenges, greeted each new day with enthusiasm?

Franklin the pig has a delightful sense of humor. Rambo the sheep is wiser than any human I know. Before he died, an old steer named Samson licked my face over and over--until he took his final breath. A dozen people witnessed this. I believe he was telling me he loved me. Anthropomorphism? Come visit. Decide for yourself.

Thank you to Will Dendis for his beautiful article, and for the opportunity to comment on a term that belittles both animals and the humans lucky enough to share their world as intimately as we do.