by Kim Meeder
In that moment, I couldn’t help but realize that there are times in this life when it is not the most educated or skilled who are ultimately equipped to lead … sometimes it is the one who just simply steps forward. It is not enough to merely know what is right … we must do what is right.
Everything changes when we shift our perspective to God’s. His focus is on our mustard seed of faith … not our mountain of doubt. He realizes all that we are … not all that we are not. He sees all that we have … not all that we lack. God desires only what I have … and He does only what I cannot.
When we view our problems from the same perspective … anything can be possible. Anything becomes possible when we choose to lay our fear aside and simply … step up.
John, age 14, when asked which class in
school he enjoyed the most: “Ummmm … lunch!”
Jenna, age 6, when speaking about how much
Lightfoot loves her: “I don’t mind his scars;
I just see how much he loves me.
After what had already been an extreme and emotionally charged day, it was time to go to work. The Sheriff’s Department had been made aware of the miserable plight of 130 horses in need, and with great difficulty was finally able to secure two safe locations where they could be moved.
My gaze lingered on the back of our truck and trailer as Troy slowly pulled away from the rescue sight with the first three rescued horses. With a tiny twinge of sadness, I knew that he would not be returning. We both acknowledged that it would probably be best if he stayed at the Fairgrounds, one of the two locations that had been selected to house the needy horses, where he could help with the “receiving process” as the equine refugees arrived.
I had been quietly requested to stay behind and help organize the ensuing exodus. Since few of the horses had ever been touched by a human being, the task at hand was going to be a very complicated and dangerous one.
Apparently after hearing how Troy had been able to trailer the first three stallions, the incident commander had officially given me the go-ahead to assemble a working crew and begin loading horses.
It was now nearly two o’clock, and with the official “green light” to proceed, we were able to formulate how we were going to move wild horses into trailers with whatever “tools” we could find around the decaying ranch. Together with many friends, we hastily constructed a “catch pen,” chute, and collapsible loading pen out of all of the semi-usable metal panels that we could find on the property.
Because most of these horses had never been handled, attempting to halter them was completely out of the question. We would begin by pushing approximately a dozen horses at a time into the catch pen. Here, each horse needed to first be processed and documented as evidence for the Sheriff’s Department before it could be loaded into one of the dozens of waiting trailers. This was a very tedious process that took great concentration from many of the volunteers. Within the milling herd in the catch pen, every horse had to be photographed, assigned a general description, and identified by breed, gender, age, weight, and condition. (It was agreed that the three horses Troy had already moved would be processed as soon as they reached their new location.)
Once the “scribes” who were in charge of recording all the gathered information were in place and ready, the rest of the group quietly moved out into the main herd. This group of horses was for all practical purposes “loose.” The area through which they roamed was so great that the only fence line in view was the one that ran next to the dwelling and other deteriorated corrals. Thankfully, it was to our advantage that loose hay had been put out for this herd very close to the area where we would be trying to move them into the catch pen.
With great caution, thirty or so of the volunteers made a “human fence” through the milling mob. As gently as we could, our line began to slowly push a small group of horses toward the catch pen. Our goal was to keep the entire group of horses as calm as possible. With civilians on the ground moving through a herd of wild horses, we didn’t want the horses to be frightened and run, or worse, run us over.
We had baited them with piles of fresh hay like bread crumbs into the waiting catch pen. Lured by their overwhelming hunger, many of the younger horses walked right into the scenario we had planned. Some of the older mares, being more savvy, cagey, and experienced, knew that we intended to do more than just feed them. As we continued to walk shoulder to shoulder and an arm’s length apart, some of the wiser mares began to circle, looking for a way of escape. Immediately we stopped, giving the horses with rising concern time to settle. With heads held high, they watched our every move through extremely suspicious eyes.
It became eminently clear that no settling was going to happen here; these feral mares believed that something very bad was coming their way. In nearly instantaneous unison, they wheeled and broke into a gallop straight for the human line! By waving our arms we averted several in the stampede, but one large gray mare would not be deterred. Her thundering posture left no question that she was going to break through whatever stood in her way.
Obviously not wishing for anyone to be trampled, we quickly made a gap for her to safely pass through. As my friend Vicky moved to the side, she looked up just in time to see that the eye of the charging mare nearest to her was white—the mare was partially blind! Vicky lunged to the left in a not so fluid move that probably would have cost any cat most if not all of its nine lives! The rushing mare brushed Vicky with the outside of her shoulder and forcefully spun her to the ground. Being completely nonplussed, Vicky just sat on the cold earth and began to laugh. “I saw that blind eye coming at me and just thought, ‘Girl, today just isn’t your day!’ ” Everyone joined her hearty laughter—certainly not because it was funny, but with great relief that she was truly okay.
Daylight was beginning to weaken as we finally were able to find a rhythm. Trucks pulling their trailers formed an organized line that looked more like a collective multicolored locomotive than individuals offering whatever rig they had to help move the refugees. One team was responsible for moving horses into the catch pen. Another was accountable for all the “cleric work” of documenting each horse. Still another team was in charge of determining how many horses could be herded into each trailer, and then safely executing this without getting charged, kicked, or trampled in the process.
Since the horses were too wild to handle individually, we had to “free” load them. This meant that no stall doors or dividers could be used to ensure the horses’ safe travels within the trailer once it started to move. To counter-balance this lack of physical device to help steady the horses, we chose instead to let the horses hold each other up. This meant that instead of loading three horses in a three-horse trailer with dividers … we would tie the dividers to the side of the trailer and would free-load five horses … or even six, if they were small.
Once we determined how many horses could safely fit into each trailer, my team would herd them into the collapsible “loading pen.” With the trailer door fully open, we would “convince” the horses that the very best place for them to be was inside the box before them. We accomplished this by using “flags,” usually a plastic bag tied on the end of a stick. When waved, the whisked, plastic sound was unfamiliar to the horses and would cause them to move away from the strange source of noise. This “system” was very effective in turning the horses to face the waiting trailer. Once most of them were turned, we would collapse the pen to gently “push” them in.
After approximately two hours of loading one pen after another of starving, terrified horses, the next group that filed past me contained the skeletal filly. She was the most gruesomely starved creature I had ever seen. Troy and I had agreed earlier that if she miraculously lived through this ordeal, when she was released from the impending investigation, we would take her home.
In her severely weakened condition, Troy and I had noted before that any movement was hard for her. Yet, when adrenalized by fear, she moved along at a brisk and v
ery stiff-legged walk. She was the smallest in a group of five others who were to be loaded next.
Once the tiny herd entered our collapsible pen, we closed the makeshift gate behind them. Immediately feeling trapped, like all the other groups, they began to quickly circle, collectively looking for a way of escape. As gently as we could, we turned the group to face the opening that led into the waiting trailer. With great caution, we began to “ask” the horses to move forward into the trailer by making the pen smaller behind them. Frightened by the pressure from behind, two of the horses lunged forward.
Suddenly, but not entirely unexpectedly, the entire group circled hard to the left in an effort to avoid the unfamiliar box in front of them. The emaciated filly was abruptly pushed sideways in front of the trailer opening. Before we could stop them, the stronger horses spun around again. Swiftly realizing the trailer was their best way of escape, they began driving hard against the suddenly trapped, sideways filly. In an instant, this extremely fragile filly’s legs were being crushed against the bumper of the trailer! Perhaps expecting that she was about to see all four spindly legs break, the woman holding back the trailer door screamed!
Instantly, two of our team lunged to reach their flags in front of the driving horse’s faces and stop their forward momentum. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as the weak filly slowly was able to regain her balance and turn toward the trailer.
With everyone turned in the correct direction, all the flags were lowered. Ever so gently, again, we asked the little herd to move forward. In near unison, all five safely jumped into the trailer. Once the door was secured, we checked through the windows to make sure that all, especially the filly, were in a firmly supported position to make the trip to the intensive care facility.
Mercifully, as the afternoon wore on, no horses or people were injured during the loading process. We continued to evaluate each horse-to-trailer ratio—seven horses in this large trailer, twelve horses in that even bigger one, five in the next. The caravan of trucks pulling trailers continued to slowly rotate forward until it became too dark to safely continue.
Fatigue and relief spread over the volunteers in union with the gathering darkness. In a handful of hours the combined teams of volunteers had safely moved just under one hundred horses. That alone was a decent accomplishment with tame horses … yet, these were wild horses, individuals who had rarely, if ever, been touched.
The remaining horses were moved the following day. The exodus to safety was complete.
After a few days had passed for the horses to settle and rest, it was time to begin their extensive vetting process. Dozens of horses had hooves that were so long that they had difficulty moving correctly, and many of these suffered severe soft-tissue and tendon damage as well. We knew, because of their time frame at their desert purgatory, that no horse under the age of five had ever been vaccinated or dewormed or had hoof care of any kind. After moving all the horses only days before, we were also convinced that every horse under the age of five had known virtually no human contact. This vetting process was not only daunting by the sheer volume of horses, it was going to be extremely dangerous as well.
Troy and I arrived early at the fairgrounds with several of our staff. Weak rays of sunlight were no match for the bitter gray chill of the December morning. Together we joined cold hands behind our truck and prayed for safety over what was to be laid before us. All of us fully understood the risk involved, how completely treacherous every aspect of what needed to be done on this day would be. Lord, protect us all.
When we joined the rest of the volunteers and deputies, the lieutenant who was the incident commander rallied the hardy team for instruction. There were veterinarians, vet technicians, farriers, horse trainers, first-aid responders, horse wranglers, and dozens of others with varied horse experience just like us. Immediately, we were heavily cautioned that this job was going to be so dangerous that it had already been arranged where the Air-Life helicopter would land if our safety precautions failed.
Because we were at the fairgrounds, we intended to make full usage of the labyrinth of holding pens, bucking chutes, and movable metal panels, plus the main arena. Our objective was to further document and administer as much care as we could. Each and every horse would first be haltered and then thoroughly recorded with multiple photographs. Then they were numbered, assigned an estimated age through dentition, injected with a vaccine that protects against five major equine diseases, given a dose of nasal spray that combats an extremely virulent virus called “strangles,” and also administered an oral dose of dewormer. Next, the veterinarians would deal with any wounds that needed professional attention. And finally, each horse’s hooves would be evaluated and trimmed, if absolutely necessary, by some incredibly brave farriers.
In conclusion, the entire herd would be sorted. Adult stallions would be placed in individual pens, adult mares—who were nearly all in foal—would be corralled together. All the young colts would all be placed in a separate corral together and all the fillies would be gathered into a separate corral.
For helping a wild horse that had known little or no human contact, attempting all this was truly expecting nearly the impossible. For one hundred wild horses with little or no human contact, it would become nothing less than a miracle. It was our prayer that we would be able to accomplish this for every terrified horse without any injuries … or anyone being killed!
After a bit of shuffling, the volunteers were organized into basic teams. The mounted horse wranglers would move the different groups of horses into a common pen where they could drive them into a long “hallway.” As every horse progressed down the “hall,” the different teams would perform their specific tasks. Eventually, each horse would end up in one of the three bucking chutes where one of three medical teams would administer their restorative care.
Although the entire process was fraught with danger, confining a wild horse in a three-by-ten-foot metal space was, at times, nearly suicidal.
Horses are herd animals first and range animals second. This means that they need each other and they need space to feel safe. It broke my heart that we had to deny them both of those things, temporarily, in order to prepare each individual for the new life that awaited them. Once in the bucking chute, they were so utterly terrified that they were reduced to nothing more than pure survival instincts. Nearly all of them entered the chute and immediately dropped their head to the ground in a frenzied panic, desperately searching for a way of escape. Their entire bodies trembled and shook at the sheer thought of being touched.
As one of the leaders for the vetting teams, I always tried to calm each horse before working on it by slowly rubbing its withers the same way a mother would nurture her foal. For many this worked well; for others it had the same effect as pushing the “eject button” in a fighter jet! Consumed with white-hot terror, these horses would literally launch straight up in a frenzy of flailing hooves. As much as it saddened me to be part of the cause of their alarm, I had to touch them to get the job done. I didn’t fully realize until that day that horses, when motivated, really can climb metal!
We quickly learned the benefits of looping cotton ropes over their backs and securing them to the metal panels. This way the horses were not only prevented from rearing straight up, they were also effectively stopped from climbing the panels. This was a great relief to all of us, because during their crashing panic, several horses had already gotten their hooves and legs through the panels—which, without a quick resolution … could have been fatal.
The farriers were amazing. To volunteer for such incredibly dangerous work gave me even more respect for these individuals who I already highly honor. Numerous times throughout the day I saw teams of as many as four grown men trying to steady a single youngster while one man attempted to trim its hooves. Even though they employed every precaution they could to be as safe as possible, several times throughout the day I saw the entire team get taken out and dragged through the freezing slush. Once during
the afternoon I turned around just in time to see one farrier receive a double-barreled kick square in the chest from a wily colt. In typical cowboy fashion, he steadied himself with a few backwards steps, turned the air blue, and got right back to business.
Certainly the horses with the worst feet were the adult stallions. These poor souls had been confined to tiny pens and subjected to stand in their own manure for the last four years. Some of them had hooves that were so long and curled backwards that the only safe remedy was to tranquilize them until they were flat on the ground, and then saw the sickening “slippers” off with a hacksaw.
Freezing rain turned to sloppy snow and then rain again. Despite the miserable weather, everyone worked together like links in a supportive chain. Each individual deputy, horse professional, and volunteer all joined arms with those beside them and gave what they had. Slowly, horse by individual horse, hand by individual hand, the impossible job was finally completed.
In the face of many bumps, bruises, kicks, and countless “near misses,” the Air-Life helicopter never landed nor was any ambulance ever dispatched. No serious injury was sustained by either man or beast. At the day’s end, even those who wouldn’t claim to be “religious” were caught giving a smile and a “thumb’s up” toward the heavens.
As word of the horses’ rescue spread, the monetary impact of the recovery effort was immediately realized. The financial resources needed to sustain 130 seriously neglected and starved horses was staggering. The necessary feed, hay, medical attention, medical supplies, and rent for the fairgrounds and intensive care facility quickly made the Millican Horse Rescue national news.
Truly, what an amazing nation we live in. With so many other worthy causes all asking for support, who would care to give aid to 130 unwanted horses? To our great relief, many cared. As the cry for help traveled across this great land … the answer in return was a firm and resounding “Yes, we will help.” Scores of generous hearts not only took heed … they acted … giving whatever extra financial help they could afford.
