Above:
Buddy III and I in a calm moment.
The first Buddy, the one who sang.
The first Buddy napping.

Even though it slices so sharply into my lower back that I can hardly breathe, I am happy to have this pain. I am happy because it has replaced three weeks’ numbness in my right arm and leg. Numbness scares me. It is unfamiliar and seems ominous. Back pain and I are old friends. And since I started an animal sanctuary for abused farm animals in 2001, back pain and I see a lot of each other.

It’s not the worst back injury I’ve had. But it’s no fun. And as with most of my other injuries—all to the back—I was hurt in the course of a normal day.

This time, it happened with Buddy.

The first Buddy, a nearly-30 blind Appaloosa gelding, died three years ago, his head in my lap as I stroked his cheek and sang to him. He was a remarkable horse, the first of many blind creatures at Catskill Animal Sanctuary. What a joy it was to relive his transformation as I wrote my book, Where the Blind Horse Sings: Love and Healing at an Animal Sanctuary. Who would ever believe that another old, blind Appaloosa gelding named Buddy would appear nearly three years to the day after Buddy the First’s death? Not I. But down the driveway he came one brisk winter afternoon.

Buddy III (yes, there was another Buddy as well) is a little fart: under fifteen hands, for sure. And while his predecessor was barrel-chested and round, this Buddy is as narrow as a yearling. He has the manners of a yearling, too! He careens around and walks in a crooked line and ignores all commands, whether verbal or manual. Buddy I was such a very eager student. He so wanted to learn, and how he reveled in the student/teacher relationship we developed over the years.

This Buddy? This blind horse is the kid at the back of the room mumbling jokes whenever the teacher’s back is turned. He’s the car that sputters and spits and lurches and grinds, utterly incapable of a smooth ride. And he doesn’t HAVE attention deficit disorder: Buddy IS A.D.D.

Take today, for instance. High winds and torrential rain, so Buddy is stuck inside. No nice stroll around the sanctuary grounds. I’ll groom him and walk him up and down the aisle, I decide. At least he’ll be able to stretch his legs.

Tack box in hand, I enter his stall. “Hey, Bud....hey sweet man,” I say to the goofball, who is instantly mouthing every part of me: my chin, my hat, my coat, my thighs. Buddy is extremely tactile: what a great way for a personable blind horse to connect, after all. (Rescued animals are often unusually tactile, but none as much as the blind ones.) Buddy has an ulterior motive, as well. I hide treats for him. Rather than put them in my pocket, I put them somewhere different each time so that he really does have to search: under my hat, tucked into a sleeve or the bottom of my pants or my bra (plenty of room in there). Even when I don’t have treats—an apple, a carrot, a pear, plum (seeded), or banana—he continues to play. Have I looked there yet? Maybe not!!! There?!!!

He settles down, finally, for grooming. I take out the curry comb, a heavy rubber oval with rows of pointed rubber teeth. I start with small, firm circles just behind his ears. Nirvana. After a few strokes, Buddy’s jaw relaxes, his eyes flutter and droop. In a few moments, his neck drops a bit. Buddy reacts to grooming the way most horses react to massage. OF COURSE: why have I only now thought of it—we must schedule a massage for him!! I laugh, imagining his knees buckling as he collapses to the ground in equine ecstasy, and I make a mental note to schedule a visit from Martha, our volunteer massage therapist.

But back to my back. I’m the one who needs a massage, damn it!

Buddy and I were walking in the woods a good ¾ mile from the barn. He’d been with us for just a few days; the snow was 6” deep, and Buddy was far too nervous to be ridden. (I may never ride him. It’s important to let each animal heal in his own way and time, on his own terms.)

For now, we’re walking, he and I, together, a little farther each day. On the day of our “incident,” Class Clown, convinced after a thorough frisking that I was treat-free, was actually paying attention. His head was high, his ears forward as he listened to the birds, to tree limbs scratching against each other as a strong breeze whisked through them. I was tired. Buddy walks even faster than I do, and I was definitely winded as we moved uphill through the snow.

Without warning, Buddy bolted. Without warning, he panicked. What had he heard or smelled that I had not? I circled him in tiny, tight circles lest he careen headlong into a tree. “Okay, Bud....it’s okay, boy,” I whispered, circling him as tightly as I could with my left hand but pushing against him with all my might with my right hand—indeed my entire right upper body—because he was about to collapse into me. “Calm down, Bud, it’s okay...it’s okay....”

Neither my words nor my manner did a thing to calm the frightened horse. I couldn’t get him to stop, and I certainly wasn’t going to let go: he’d either be dead or seriously injured in a flash. For a half mile back to the barn my I fought with all my might to keep a terrified 900-pound new blind friend contained—to keep him safe. Circle, circle, circle, keep his head in, keep his body away from you. Don’t collapse in the snow. Halfway back, my arms cramped and I fought for breath. “Walt! Lorraine!” I shouted for backup, but no one heard me. “Ten more steps...you can walk ten more steps,” I said to myself, and continued this mantra ten times ten times ten, all the way back.

Finally, we were safely inside the barn. Well, Buddy was. Gasping for air, I shut him into his stall, and collapsed in a shaking heap on the barn floor. Keeping that horse safe for that distance was the toughest physical thing I’ve ever done. No joke. Tougher than the 100-mile bike rides I used to do.

I took a steaming Epsom-salt bath that night, but the next morning, I couldn’t feel my limbs. I couldn’t feel them the next day or the next or the next. Why it didn’t dawn on me that the numbness was connected to the extreme physical challenge I just described I’m not sure, but it didn’t. Maybe because the numbness kept changing, moving around. One moment it was severe and involved my entire right side, the next it was slight and involved just my lower arm. Its severity and region constantly shifted.

I made appointments: chiropractors, massage therapists, physical therapists. The day before I was scheduled to see an osteopath, the numbness disappeared. And when it did....boy did pain announce its arrival. “I’M HERE!” it shouted with a relentless pulse to the lower back.

As I said, however, back pain and I are old friends. While I happily live a relatively Spartan life, you’d never guess it by my collection of ice packs and heating pads. Out they come, along with the Epsom salts, Ibuprofen, and the realization that I’d do it again if I had to. Animal rescue is animal rescue, period. Abused animals, abandoned animals, needy animals....they must heal in their own time, on their own terms. Occasionally that means we humans hurt like hell.

Buddy the Third--yes, our third blind Appaloosa named Buddy--is having more good days than bad now. And that feels good.

Buddy arrived a couple months ago from a family that loved him deeply but could no longer afford his care. But Buddy had "issues," too--issues about which we weren't told until after he was surrendered to Catskill Animal Sanctuary. He was blind, which we weren't told, he had panic attacks, which we weren't told, and several times he'd broken out of his pasture (probably during a panic attack). Once he was found standing alone in the woods several days after he was missing; once he was hit by a car.

When Buddy is calm, he's a delight. Perhaps because he cannot see, he is exceptionally tactile. He craves touch--he loves being the "toucher" as much as the "touchee," rubbing his head on our backs, nibbling a sleeve or an arm, or occasionally letting us cradle his head in our arms when he's dozing after a good dinner.

But his panic attacks continue. They're both worrisome and frightening, since the possibility of injury to him and to his handler is very real when they occur. We anxiously await the arrival of the only equine opthalmologist in our region. She'll be able to determine if the attacks are because he has some tiny degree of sight left and is perceiving "floaters" -- tiny particles that float across the eye -- and senses he's being assaulted.

Aaaah, yes: Buddy's sudden and wildly erratic movement is EXACTLY the way one would behave if he were trying to escape from something. Even in his stall, he gets so panic stricken that he crashes into the wall, and nothing we can do--not a calm voice, a calm touch, a treat, holding him in place to help him "get" that nothing is coming at him--consoles him.

Come on, Doc.. We need to help this boy. More good days than bad are welcome, indeed, but each new attack is so hard on him, so hard on us...

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.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a tiny goat who had arrived from Manhattan. He was desperately ill; we weren't sure he would make it.

Well make it he did. "Zen Sunshine" is his name -- Deborah from Luna 61 offered "Zen," and a volunteer was hooked on "Sunshine." We went through the same process a year earlier with Zen's lookalike predecessor. Volunteer Chris Seeholzer dubbed the little goat, who was slightly larger and far less ill than Zen, "Lenny."

"No!" I exclaimed, having already chosen a name. His name is Nelson!!"

So "Lenny" became "Leonard H. Nelson," and most of us used his full name when referring to him.

A few weeks after his arrival, Zen Sunshine has doubled in size. No more crusty nose; no more coughing or sneezing. Much to his dismay, he's been weaned from the bottle he loved. But the bottle is probably the only thing he misses from those first few weeks spent in quarantine. Today, Zen has replaced our young pig Franklin as resident troublemaker. (As a free-range piglet, Franklin wound up spending so much time in "time out" that we reluctantly, a couple months ago, placed him in the field with the grown up pigs. He does just fine, as long as volunteer Allen Landes remembers his treats--squash microwaved for 30 seconds--each day.)

So Zen is our newest free-range animal, challenging 50-pound feed bags to duels and using wheelbarrows full of shavings as trampolines and staring down a blind horse, not understanding why the horse who cannot see does not quake in fear.

Why do we do this? Because we can. Because we have lots of space and lots of loving hearts and hands to get the newest member of the "underfoot family" out of trouble many, many times a day. Because allowing young or new or inexperienced or timid animals free range of the property always seems the very best way of convincing them that life is good.

He doesn't know it yet, but Zen Sunshine is going to the big city.

As I write in Where the Blind Horse Sings, we don't believe in carting around animals for show, and are therefore opposed to roadside petting zoos and other businesses that use animals for profit. When people want to connect with farm animals and understand the lessons they teach, they must generally come to Catskill Animal Sanctuary.

The ebullient rooster Paulie, a former cockfighter from Brooklyn, was an exception to the "no travel" rule. As social an animal as I ever met, Paulie sought out human companionship. Beyond that, however, Paulie loved--indeed DEMANDED--car rides! He'd screech and crow and hop up and down outside my car door until I picked him up and placed him in the passenger seat, where it took him no more than five minutes to fall asleep. Paulie visited restaurants, schools, Chambers of Commerce, radio stations....even Jivamukti Yoga Studio in Union Square. Five full chapters of Blind Horse describe this remarkable animal, his transformation, and the lifelong lessons he shared with those who knew him.

and now it's Zen's turn.

Like most young goats, Zen can't get enough of human contact. Found in the streets of Manhattan (where many of our animals, having escaped from a slaughterhouse-bound truck, or out a slaughterhouse door, or been found in boxes left in city streets, or in mailboxes or cemeteries or dumpsters) Zen has taken beautifully, of course, to farm life. (Like other goats, Zen has an optimistic world view, assuming that humans are all sources of love, food, or fun. Around CAS, of course, his view is an accurate one.)

So when I pulled into the parking lot last week and Zen came bounding into my lap as soon as I opened the car door....well, then, it wasn't too difficult to see that we had another traveller on our hands. I've taken him out for a few test runs...he quickly relaxes in his large airy carrier.

On Wednesday night, then, Zen will take his first big trip. We're going to Manhattan--to Rapture, a gay cafe and book shop, no less, (200 Avenue A between 13th and 14th; 8:30 pm) where he's sure to get into plenty of mischief. It will be a far cry from his previous experience of wandering the mean city streets. He'll be lavished with affection, which is nearly all he wants from us humans anyway, having been separated from his mother as a tiny thing. And we'll decide whether we truly have in Zen another traveling ambassador: another one who can look humans in the eyes and say, "See--I'm really not so very different from you, after all..."

(and oh, yeah, I'll be reading from my book, which will be available for purchase)

Zen and I are pooped after our night on the town.

The little white goat rescued from slaughter a few months ago settled easily into our journey to Manhattan yesterday. Though I stuffed a large airy carrier full of hay, he settled so easily that before we reached New Paltz I pulled over and opened his door so he could walk around the back of my Subaru wagon. He did move around a little--mostly, though, he stayed nestled in his hay, munching either that or the carrots I brought along. And he napped. A lot.

I parked on 7th Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets, where virtually every passerby stopped to smile at my little pal as he nibbled at the grass planted around a brave tree sprouting up from the concrete.

"What's he doing in the city?" everyone asked. Dogs stared in disbelief. They didn't bark...just stared as if they didn't quite trust their eyesight. "Hey Zim...." I saw a little Chihuahua glance at his pal Babwe..."are you seeing what I'm seeing?" And city folk clustered around Zen Sunshine, who greeted everyone with the same eagerness he displays at Catskill Animal Sanctuary.

My book reading was not held at Rapture, but instead was held around the corner at Otto's, where Daniel (of dlist.com fame and the night's organizer) dj'd in the front while Jean Rhode, Zen, and I greeted guests in a quiet, enclosed back space. I needn't have been concerned about Zen, who spent the evening challenging new human friends to King of the Mountain (the 6" stage), nibbling people's fingers and sleeves, and gratefully accepting water and treats of lettuce, carrot, and apple.

I read a chapter from Where the Blind Horse Sings about Paulie, the former Brooklyn cockfighting rooster, and one about Rambo, the violent sheep turned barn guard and greeter.
I spoke of the devastating cruelty and impact of factory farming, and of the lessons learned from formerly abused animals. People asked questions and bought books.

Mostly, though, they admired our little spokesgoat, our little ambassador Zen.

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 now, anyway, the worrying is over. Our little Andy, still agonizingly thin, has gained over 100 pounds and a great deal of strength. What a thrill that he's finally able to stand on his feet all day and not need to collapse in the afternoon for a 2-hour recovery!

Just as happily, he's gained ATTITUDE--he's a fresh little thing as he nibbles cheeks, steals hats from our heads, and demands--yes demands--attention from us as we walk past his stall.

HEY--WHAT ABOUT ME--YOU ACTUALLY THINK YOU CAN WALK PAST THIS STALL AND IGNORE ME???? he says as he stretches his neck over his was as far as he can. And we, of course, stop and offer a kiss, a stroke, some gentle words.

Like the rest of them, he's got our number...

Tiny Pumpkin is officially free!!! Yes, out of quarantine, out of the isolation and monotony of her stall--after only a week, baby goat Pumpkin is free!! (A week's quarantine was largely a formality, as Pumpkin had lived alone for virtually her entire life, so her risk of carrying a virus or infectious disease was minimal)

We've not yet introduced her to Zen--we hope this match will work--instead, we simply opened her stall door today...and out she walked, then trotted, then galloped, then leaped for joy, then in celebration of her goatness, raced Walt to the end of the barn, boomaranged off the end of the barn, and high-tailed it back to the far end...150 feet away!!

"COME ON, PUMPKIN!!!!" Walt hollered. And the little goat KNEW IT WAS A GAME!! She FLOORED IT, racing Walt, leaping over a bale of hay, leaping over a hose draped over the aisle--why miss a chance to show off?!!--back and forth they charged...until she gave out of gas, veered right into her stall, gulped a mouthful of hay, announcing "I'm done, but that was FUN!!!"

To simply be an observer at Catskill Animal Sanctuary is a wonderful thing.

Well, he's NOT gaining weight...after putting on 100 pounds in the first couple months at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, Andy's little body is still wretchedly thin: every rib visible, his spindly little legs way too long and gangly -- part horse, part antelope. Veterinarian Heather O'Leary of Rhinebeck Equine has suggested that he's now ready for a gradual transition to a diet higher in calories and fat, so Walt will be concocting yet another custom blend, to be fed
four times a day, along with all the hay he can eat.

But he sure has gained strength and energy and ATTITUDE. We're able to turn him out now, this horse who was chronically and severely underfed for his entire life and who was so weak upon arrival that he could barely stand. Even now, he rests -- stretched out flat in his lushly-bedded stall -- for an hour or more at a time.

And oh, what a joy to see him charging around the pasture!! A stallion who can't yet be gelded since one testicle hasn't dropped (and an invasive surgery under full anesthesia would still be too much for such a compromised being) he goes out with our two bovine youngsters -- Rudy, a steer from Catskill Game Farm, and his blind friend, a little cow named Helen.

For the most part they ignore each other. Meanwhile, though, Andy is thrilled to be out in the air, nibbling remaining shoots of grass, stretching his legs, spindly as they are, and whinnying longingly to the mares across the road. Mostly, Andy runs. He trots and canters then gallops, snorting and tossing his head much of the time. Sheer delight at being free; sheer delight at feeling GOOD...surely for the first time in his life.

You GO, boy...you GO...

It's been months since I wrote about Buddy--the THIRD blind horse named Buddy taken in by Catskill Animal Sanctuary--and the one whose lovely face graces the cover of my book, Where the Blind Horse Sings.

How delighted I am to report that after eight months of patient work--initially by Allen Landes, who took over with Buddy shortly after I was so injured that working with him could have been disastrous (see earlier entry titled "Back Pain"), and then by Walt Batycki, our devoted animal care director, Buddy has become an independent horse, capable of going out on his own and grazing for several hours. No panicking, no charging into fences, no maniacal circling.

A few months ago, Walt began taking Buddy out to a flat pasture and lunging him (the human stands in one spot, turning in a circle while the horse, at the end of a long "lunge line," trots in a circle approx 50'-60' in diameter). Lunging had been Buddy's only form of exercise with his previous owner, and while it helped him release his excess energy, it gave rise to a dangerous "default" behavior. When Buddy was frightened (as blind animals easily are, obviously), he'd trot in fast, frantic circles whether or not a lunge line was attached to his halter. Much like an autistic child who repeats the same motion over and over, Buddy would circle, and circle, and circle...increasing both his speed and the angle at which he leaned into the circle...until he would often fall down. Snapping him out of the behavior was HARD as HELL and involved some physical risk.

But time passed. Walt's patience remained. "You need to think about weaning him," I suggested, as I had begun to struggle with quality of life issues. Are we really helping this animal if the best he can do is leave his stall for 45 minutes a day to trot in a repetitive circle? No. Buddy had to be weaned. Suggestion turned to gentle insistence.

Buddy's crazed circling slowed. And then, for the most part, it stopped. Our third blind Buddy was weaned off the lunge line that connected him to Walt, who had so clearly become Buddy's security blanket. For a few days, Walt remained in the field, sitting close enough to Buddy so that if his pal did spook, the sound of Walt's voice would reassure him.

So now, eight long months and many chiropractor and massage bills later, Buddy is going out to the pasture...ALONE!!! Yes, Buddy has graduated! He's out now for a few hours in the afternoon. For the most part, he grazes quietly. Like his predecessor, the Buddy of Where the Blind Horse Sings, he lifts his head high and listens HARD if a sound is unfamiliar. If he's really spooked, the circling, still his default coping mechanism, kicks in. But you know what? He can generally calm himself now. That's right. The horse who could not be calmed and centered eight months ago can do calm and center himself. I'll bet that's the biggest victory he's had in a long, long time.

And Walt, if you're reading this: Thanks. You kicked ass.

It's true...our boy is smitten.

Lexie, the mare who arrived with Andy four months ago, has been designated "pasture pal" for our blind friend Buddy. Now that he's "graduated" and is capable of spending panic-free time in the pasture, we wanted to give him the chance to bond with another horse--something his owner suggested that he'd never done. Who better than Lexie, the "I've seen it all" old girl who's rebounded beautifully from chronic deprivation at a nurse mare farm.

Like his predecessor, Buddy does still get anxious. But Lexie calms him. He'll lift his head high in the air, listening hard for his girl. Often, we'll watch, delighted, as Lexie moves over to Buddy, sometimes even walking into the middle of his frantic circling. When Buddy either hears or smells his friend, he'll walk over to her, and we'll watch him unkink, breath by breath. We can almost hear him saying, "Oh FRIEND--I'm so glad you're here!!"

What a joy it will be to watch this friendship evolve. Already it resembles that of the original Buddy (the "star" of Where the Blind Horse Sings) and his friend-for-life Dino--a tiny pipsqueak with the heart of a giant--who came to life upon Buddy's arrival and was a steadfast friend until Buddy took his final breath.

"Efficiency be Damned" -- that's our motto, I joke in my book Where the Blind Horse Sings. At the time the book was written--I handed in the final draft in March--we had twenty-one free-range animals--assorted ducks, pigs, chickens, sheep--all of whom, for one reason or another, needed to be free during the day in order to truly thrive. Rambo the sheep, for instance, has intense claustrophobia after years of confinement in a tiny stall with 17 other animals. Hannah, his pal or paramour, depending on the day, was found in a Brooklyn cemetery, and was so terrified of humans that she needed to be a barn sheep, both to maximize her contact with humans and to take her cues from the extraordinary Rambo.

Members of the "Underfoot Family," as well call our free-range menagerie, change constantly. Animals are adopted; others arrive to take their place. Today, our free-range family is comprised of two roosters, one hen, one turkey, two farm pigs, seven potbellies, and four sheep. Its newest members are Jack and Lama, a blind sheep and his friend. (See Zoey and Paulie, two founding members of the family, in photo)

Jack and Lama arrived at Catskill Animal Sanctuary four years ago this month when Eddie Lama's (of Tribe of Heart's The Witness fame) Oasis Sanctuary was forced to downsize. We took their farm animals: a dozen chickens, two goats, seven sheep, five rabbits, and five huge pigs. Until recently, Jack fared just fine in our sheep flock on top of the hill. But as he aged and lost his vision, Misha, a giant Hampshire sheep with a "bull in a china shop" mentality, was too much for him, so we moved Jack and his friend Lama to our "special needs" sheep field to live with Noel and her son Christopher in their roomy digs.

11 a.m. I was cleaning the special needs house, tossing pitchfork after pitchfork of bedding into the manure spreader, when Old Jack stood up from his spot in the corner, hobbled up to me, and gently pressed his head into my thigh.

"Hey, old man. Hey, sweet old man," I whispered as I knelt down to look into his cloudy eyes and kiss his woolly forehead.

"Take me inside," is what I felt he was saying, and while it was probably not that precise, I do feel the gentle animal was saying that he wanted more than he was getting in the sheep barn with two roommates who wanted nothing to do with humans.

So we made a space for Jack, who was accompanied, of course, by his friend Lama.

We wondered if they might be overwhelmed. Tractors and horses and large and small pigs and staff and volunteers and a free range turkey and two roosters nearly as large as she and so much commotion at mealtime and Rambo--oh yeah RAMBO--how would the king of the castle react when two more sheep entered?

He would protect them. Yes, of course.

Jack and Lama settle into their cozy stall near the kitchen. For two days, we leave them in, allowing them to adjust safely to their new surroundings.

On day three, we open their door. Like the other Underfoot family members, they'll come out when they're ready. But the free range pigs see a new food source!! "Aaah," Millie's eyes light up as she spies the newly opened door and anticipates another opportunity to root around for any dropped grain, any tiny morsel remaining in a food dish.

But Rambo is there. In the doorway, standing guard. For a brief moment, Millie and Rambo face off. "UMMPHHH," she grunts.

Rambo lowers his head, showing the base of his massive horns. This is all he ever needs to do, for strong and willful and food-obsessed though they are, pigs are also smart enough to know that they have no chance with Rambo. Ozzi, Charlie, Zoey...I delight as pig after pig approaches the entrance, seeing the opportunity, then again as each one turns around, cowed by the strength and stature and power of a sheep who knows his job and does it well.

"Uno?" Lorraine asked our vet, Heather O'Leary, when she examined Andy to see if his second testicle had dropped.

When Heather's response was "dos," Lorraine did a happy dance, and the little survivor was IMMEDIATELY scheduled for surgery.

To track his wonderful progress, see the following entries (chronologically from earliest to most recent):

Welcome, Andy!
Andy Awaits His First Adventure
Hey, Fresh Boy
You Go Boy!!

A little guy whom we didn't know would survive DID survive, a little guy whom we didn't know could have a full life WILL have a full life. Andy is being gelded. He may be the homeliest horse that ever lived, but he doesn't know that. He's The Little Horse that Could.

Come meet him. He'll make you smile.

"Uno?" Lorraine asked our vet, Heather O'Leary, when she examined Andy to see if his second testicle had dropped.

When Heather's response was "dos," Lorraine did a happy dance, and the little survivor was IMMEDIATELY scheduled for surgery.

To track his wonderful progress, see the following entries (chronologically from earliest to most recent):

Welcome, Andy!
Andy Awaits His First Adventure
Hey, Fresh Boy
You Go Boy!!

A little guy whom we didn't know would survive DID survive, a little guy whom we didn't know could have a full life WILL have a full life. Andy is being gelded. He may be the homeliest horse that ever lived, but he doesn't know that. He's The Little Horse that Could.

Come meet him. He'll make you smile.

For those of you who've been reading this blog from the beginning, you'll recognize the names of the animals here: Buddy the blind horse; Abby, who arrived from a Saratoga starvation case unable to walk; Andy, the nearly-dead young Appaloosa; and our newest equines, Cas and Noah, removed from filthy, tiny stalls in a dark barn on a derelict property.

For those of you new to our blog, it's worth tracking the history of these five animals in order to fully appreciate the good news--the gloriously good news--that I'm about to share.

The Wild Ones
No more panic attacks for our blind boy. That would be victory enough. But Buddy's healing has gone way beyond the self-assurance and calm that were eight months in the making. As for Abby, we'd have been happy if she could manage to walk. I certainly never thought I'd witness what I did today.

Buddy is the lone gelding turned out in a field with the mares Abby, Henny, and Lex. The girls stay out with access to a spacious new run-in (Abby having long gained both weight and soundness); Buddy is turned out each morning and brought into the main barn just before his 3 pm dinner.

The snowfall was gorgeous this morning as I strolled the farm to check the animals. As Murphy and I began down the lane to Buddy's pasture, Buddy suddenly reared in the air, whirled around and took off in Abby's direction, bumped into her, nipped her fanny and then whipped around again in a playful kick before taking off in the opposite direction. Abby kicked back but gently chased him--seeming to fully understand that her pal is blind--and then the jostling and shoving, the nicking and squealing, the tail flicking and head tossing that FOALS love continued for a couple minutes. The old mare who could not walk when she arrived and the blind horse too frightened to be left in a field were sound enough and confident enough and energetic enough to act like a couple of kids.

The Spotted One
Little Andy is gaining weight and strength. Floating his teeth has improved his appetite, and as his health has been consistently good, he is finally--FINALLY--putting on significant weight. We knew the healing process would be long and complicated with our "gazelle." While we still wonder what his quality of life will ultimately be, for now he's happy and strong, and as full of piss and vinegar as he was WITH his testicles.

The Lame Ones
Cas and Noah, meanwhile, are recovering in ways that seem nothing short of miraculous. Farrier Korey Hedderman has seen each of them twice since they arrived four weeks ago, working wonders on their tangled, knotted hooves. The boys have gained nearly 100 pounds each, their coats are beginning to shine, and despite weak and unsteady limbs resulting from years of confinement without any farrier care, they're standing soundly. Their eyes alert and trusting. Cas has the temperament one might expect of a thoroughbred stallion--flighty and high strung. Noah, with his kind, liquidy eyes, seems an old soul to me. He's going to win a lot of hearts.

Their big news? Their quarantine ends tomorrow, and I can't wait to try a simple stroll down the long barn aisle with each of them (more would be way too much for them), -- to see how -- to see if -- they can walk.

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.

Rocky is a broiler. Because of consumer demand for breast meat, broilers develop abnormally large breasts. Those that aren't slaughtered become Frankenbirds with massive legs, heavy combs that flop over from weight, and far more pounds than their skeletal, circulatory, and respiratory systems are intended to support. By extension, these birds have the same health ailments that obese humans do: chronic pain, shortness of breath, limited mobility. And they don't fare well in extreme heat like we've experienced over the last two days.

But 22-pound Rocky managed, as did his friend Phyllis the rooster. Yes, Phyllis is a rooster. Phyllis was rescued by "Phyllis" from Brooklyn (http://www.reclaimedhome.com) in March after hiding out under a car in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

"She's a hen," Phyllis--human Phyllis--pronounced.

So Phyllis the chicken came to live at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, and settled immediately into being a farm chicken. No sirens. No screaming kids. No apparent threats to her survival like she experienced in Brooklyn. And soon, Phyllis fell in love with Rocky. The relationship is a bit like that of Hannah and Rambo (read all about how Hannah the sheep, another former Brooklynite, stalks the dashing Rambo, in my book Where the Blind Horse Sings, available on Amazon). Wherever Rocky is, Phyllis is beside him--nearly, but not quite, on top of him. Literally either pressed up against him, or pecking/relaxing within a foot of Rocky.

"She's a hen," we agreed, noting the behavior. It was still too early to tell for sure, but we saw no tell-tale growth of the flashy comb that roosters develop. And besides, Phyllis was so taken with Rocky. Would two roosters not raised together really be smitten with each other?

Phyllis crowed a few weeks ago. "Hey, people, this may be a pathetic excuse for a crow, but give me a few days to find my voice," said the pubescent ROOSTER named Phyllis!! Phyllis is as mad about Rocky as ever. And now that summer is beating down on us, we've given the two boys their own outdoor pen by the pond, beneath the shade of the willow tree.

I still try to pick up Rocky each day. He's so very heavy that being carried by someone must be an incredible relief. I know it is, because he lets go fully, sinking into my arms, falling asleep within a minute, the sweet one-eyed boy. He's the last of 300 chickens rescued by Anne Marie Lucas (of Animal Cops fame) from an abandoned poultry market. Stuffed into crates, most of the birds had already drowned during terrible flooding. But 300 came to Catskill Animal Sanctuary nearly three years ago--some of them dragging limbs, some with eyes poked out, all of them filthy and traumatized. We cleaned and nurtured and fed and treated wounds. The weakest received intravenous fluids. When they were stronger, most of the birds went to adoptive homes--other sanctuaries, and the homes of friends who simply adore chickens.

We kept thirty. Rocky is the last survivor. At a mere three years old, he has tripled his life expectancy.

Andy and his best pal Bowie

How much you can tell about a horse's personality by how much effort it takes to halter him? A lot.
Old timer Maxx practically dunks his heads right into the halter. He trusts even strangers. His attitude speaks volumes of how he has have “seen-it-all” and reads people well enough to cooperate.

And then there's Bowie, the youngster who arrived with the name Mister Bones . Bowie is getting much better about the halter. When he's hesitant, it's about fear. Bowie has filled out nicely and is a striking little guy (at all of about 14.2 hands); trust is slower in coming. In the stall, Bowie is a gem, but in the pasture, something can set him off: his nostrils flare, his eyes widen, and he evades the halter.

Clearly Bowie associates being haltered with some sort of abuse. He's more confident by the day, and his panic attacks less frequent, but the occasional fright in his eyes tears our hearts out.

Then there's Bowie's best friend Andy, the high-energy upstart--the one so severely starved a year ago that we didn't think we could save him. That was then.

These days, Andy is a spotted CLOWN filled with spunk and moxie and play. The halter? Why it's not a halter: it's a toy with which to play tug of war! Try to quickly slip it on, but Andy is faster every time. He grabs it--over and over--and yes, it seems he's grinning.

Big Ted the draft horse has another take on the whole haltering business. You'll remember him from Where the Blind Horse Sings (available on Amazon if you've not read it!). Ted is often anxious, and dislikes anything touching his ears. Yes, an 1,800-pound horse bent out of shape about over a thin piece of nylon brushing over his ears for no more than half a second. Go figure. When he lifts his head skyward and out of reach imagine being April, our staffer who may be five feet tall in her boots.

In the end, it's our job to show them all that there's nothing to fear. If in the process April needs a ladder or Bowie needs ten minutes, well, it's just part of the healing process. As for Andy? Let him play...