Noah, the chestnut stallion who arrived here encrusted in manure, bone thin, and with twisted hooves that looked like wrung-out towels, is always reluctant to leave his stall. Trapped in a tiny box for years, he surely feels that the world outside that stall is a big one. I know the real reason, though. Noah doesn't want to leave his hay.

He's far from being physically ready to be turned out. Having been locked in an 8x8 box and fed only sporadically, Noah is weak. His hooves hurt. I've never seen a horse stand with a hoof held high in the air.

"My foot hurts," he says, as he lifts it when he knows we're looking, then often turns his head to ensure we see what he's doing. "Can you help me?"

(What a communicator he is! Noah speaks with his eyes, he speaks with slow turns of his head to look all the way behind his body, and he speaks with gestures like the lifting of a hoof when we enter his stall. I find myself wondering if he and I could "talk" in the way that my dog Murphy and I do. I wonder if we have another Rambo in the making. If you've read my book, Where the Blind Horse Sings, you'll know what I'm talking about.)

Our animal care director Walt Batycki is scheduling a meeting with Heather O'Leary, our veterinarian, and Korey Hedderman, our farrier, to determine the course of action for this old boy. Just as we were with Andy, we're uncertain about Noah's long-term prognosis. Will Korey be able to reshape these hooves over time to prevent the constant pain that plagues Noah? That's the question we need to answer.

For now, though, his appetite and attitude are wonderful; the hard clumps of manure have been removed from his coat as volunteer after volunteer asks to groom him. And short daily walks with Walt, Lorraine or me up and down our long barn aisle seem to gradually building his strength.

Today, Noah's head is where it always is: buried in his hay rack.

"Come on, big boy," I say as I slide green halter over red head. "Let's go for a walk!"

I take the end of the lead rope and move backwards toward the door so that its 6' length extends between us. I figure it's better for him to navigate his own turn. He knows, not me, which joints, which hooves hurt, and how best to place them to minimize the pain.

At the open stall door, he stretches his head out, turning left and looking down the long aisle; turning right as Millie the potbelly pig trots past in her relentless search for food. I do not rush this process. Let each animal heal in his own way; on her own terms. That's the Catskill Animal Sanctuary way. While Noah's reluctance to leave could be fear-based--his entire world prior to coming here was a dark, windowless, ramshackle barn--I strongly suspect this behavior is ALL about the hay. Like many chronically starved animals, Noah delights in his food, and the most challenging part of our walk is waiting while he makes up his mind to leave it for a few minutes!

It's been three or four minutes of standing, looking, but here he comes toward me now. I want him to see the encouragement in my eyes and in my smile, so I walk backwards, facing him.

Norma Jean the turkey is all feathered bliss as she naps in the aisle. Noah lowers his head in a gentle greeting that Norma Jean knows she needn't fear. So, too, with Hannah the sheep, strutting deliberately through the hay room as we walk past. She stops, lifts her head to Noah in confident greeting, and sheep and horse stand nose to nose for a moment. When she moves on, we do, too.

Noah seems to have gotten his sea legs--his steps are much more confident than they were last week. He moves from one curiosity to the next--sometimes it's a broom or a wheelbarrow filled with shavings, but more often it's a living thing: a chicken or turkey, a sheep or pig.

Hazel the adolescent piglet trots up and lifts her pink snout in greeting. Most horses hate pigs; not this one. Noah lowers his head, and as the thousand pound horse and fifty pound pig greet each other, all soft breath and innocence, time stops. All is right in this world.

The return trip to Noah's stall is uneventful, except for the fact that the animal we weren't sure would live is pulling me quickly down the aisle. I know why, of course. We turn into his stall, and in an instant, red head is eyeball-deep in the green hay.