by Kim Meeder
As monetary help started to pour in, the Animal Control Department of the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office and dozens of volunteers set about focusing on this desperate herd and what their long-term care was going to be.
Besides the one hundred horses being housed at the fairgrounds, there were thirty more horses in an intensive care facility that needed exhaustive attention. Close to a dozen were half or completely blind. The very worst of the lame and emaciated horses were there as well … including the little skeletal creature that had earlier stolen both Troy’s and my heart.
My first visit to the intensive care facility came only days after the exodus was completed. Following the directions that had been sketched on a crumpled piece of paper, I turned onto a narrow, twisting, paved driveway. As my simple notes indicated, I drove past a small veterinary practice and continued a short distance to what looked like a private home. Just west of the home was what looked to be the makeshift ICU ward.
The building was shaped in a basic T pattern. A dozen or more stalls made up what would be the top of the letter, and the “stem” was a large, covered arena. It was late in the day, and the barn appeared empty of people. I walked down the main corridor, gleaning information with every step. The stalls were filled with the most desperate horses. Each door had been labeled with feeding instructions, a medication schedule, and a “barn name” for identification.
While walking down the corridor, I looked through the barred windows at each huddled soul. Stall after stall seemed to enclose a new variation of acute equine suffering. One held a partially blind stallion who was severely lame; in another a young stallion with a serious wound to his shoulder; still another held a completely blind mare who had learned to depend on her adult son to guide her … both had hooves that had grown into gruesome curling abnormalities and were now so incredibly lame that they could barely walk. Even though they were safe, fed, and dry, my broken thoughts kept stumbling over the same stone: How could someone allow this to happen, for so long … to so many?
The next information board read “Jack and Jill.” Here she was … the emaciated filly that I had truly come to see. Of the starving horses, she was the very worst. In an attempt to lower her stress, she was placed in an indoor stall with a small outdoor run. She was also assigned a roommate whose condition was nearly as bad as hers. He was estimated to be a one-and-a-half-year-old colt, predominantly of quarter horse heritage. Like the filly, he was also a dull bay color with high white socks on both his hind legs … which only accentuated how incredibly long those legs were for his destitute body. He looked more like an awkward carnival attraction on stilts than a young horse.
Wednesdays became my appointed day to clean all the stalls and replenish the feed and water levels for every resident. Often notes were written on a dry erase board with special instructions for more needy individuals. Once all the “chores” were completed, I always spent extra quiet time bonding with “my girl.” Everyone involved with the horse rescue effort was well aware that this little misbegotten pariah had stolen my heart, like the last unwanted puppy in the pound.
She, like most of the others, had never been handled except to administer various medications, which included many vaccinations and deworming paste. Since most of this was usually completed earlier in the week, I wanted to make sure that while I was there, she would be handled by someone who was simply there to love her. At the end of each day, together we would practice a small amount of being haltered and led, and picking up our feet. This was rewarded with a special mix of grain and extremely gentle grooming.
News of my devotion to this little urchin traveled to the top of the tree. Lieutenant Mark, who was in charge, had become a close friend through this experience, and he pulled me aside one day and simply said, “If it were up to me alone, I would just give her to you today. You have certainly earned the right to have her. Yet because this is an ongoing investigation, we must follow procedure. We have to see this through to the very end … by the book.” For someone in such a high position of authority, it was always clear that Mark’s compassion for these horses was never far from the surface. He, as with the rest of the volunteer “family,” had grown to love, respect, and occasionally dread the individuals of this ragged herd that we had become so vested in.
Without a doubt, my favorite filly was one of the most homely horses that I had ever seen. Instead of looking like a starving young horse, the rampant lanugo that covered her body made her look more like a bizarre, wooly apparition. Her nappy coat, which was completely ineffective in keeping the skin on her back from freezing off, apparently was remarkably efficient in trapping a horrific odor that seemed to cling to her like a sickening plague. The little girl just stunk! Once home, like clockwork, I could be found every Wednesday afternoon stripping down in my tiny laundry room and putting my “contaminated” clothing directly into the washer. Sadly, my hands and fingernails were a different matter. No amount of perfumed soap could go “toe to toe” with the rotting flesh stench that clung to them after visiting my stinky girl.
Nevertheless, I loved this little filly, and it would take more than the smell of death to keep me away from her side.
Because her physical condition was so dire, changes in her weight were not immediately discernable. It was the small changes in her attitude that continued to rise like a brilliant fireweed through the ashes of her former life. After many weeks of balanced “recovery feeding,” on one of my Wednesday visits, as I had done nearly every Wednesday before, I released my special girl into the arena for some self-appointed exercise. Unexpectedly, she took several trotting steps and then threw in a couple of feeble attempts at bucking! She felt good enough to try and play! I was so excited that I joined in with some “whoops and wahoos” of encouragement. This seemed to be the fuel she needed. Instead of slowing down, she broke into a very awkward canter, punctuated by all sorts of goofy attempts to throw her heels up. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at her faltering display of joyful rejuvenation.
For the following three months, many of my staff and I could be found balancing our volunteer efforts between “vetting weekends” at the fairgrounds and cleaning, vetting, and “gentling” the infirmed horses at the intensive care facility. Helping to care for this herd of horses had truly become a part of our weekly routine.
The Sheriff’s Department had been able to finalize a plan to auction off the rescued horses on March 3 to “approved buyers only.” This meant that everyone who wished to purchase a rescued horse had to fill out some very detailed paperwork and pass a criminal background check. The purpose of the “check” was to attempt to prevent any of these horses from ever falling through the cracks again. Potential buyers were also required to sign an agreement that the horses they purchased were to be kept for at least one year. Upon the completion of that first year, they could resell the horses to a suitable home if they so chose.
With this decision firmly in place came great relief … and anxiety. The Sheriff’s Department and volunteers were thrilled that these refugees would finally have a real, nurturing home. Yet we began to hear fragments of information that some of those who wished to purchase a “rescued” horse had never owned a horse before … and a few were hoping to buy these horses for their children! Apparently, to a handful of recently approved buyers, there just didn’t seem to be a clear understanding that most of these horses were still wild. Of the one hundred or so who were recovering at the fairgrounds, only a couple could actually be approached and touched.
This alarming information spurred many of the volunteers to start working in earnest with all the intensive care horses, to help them simply become halter broke. To our relief, a few of the older horses in the facility gradually remembered the training of their youth. Sadly, as we already knew, the remaining horses under the age of five had never been handled before this ordeal and truly did not wish to begin now.
Armed with nothing more than intense compassion and a steely nerve, my friend Kris began ente
ring the stalls of some of the most terrified … and dangerous individuals. To step inside a sealed, twelve-by-twelve-foot space with a wild animal that is many times your size is extremely hazardous to say the least. Yet sending these frightened animals out into the real world without giving them the tools to safely deal with a new environment … could be disastrous. It would not be unlike sending a soldier on a mission without any training. Clearly, it was not a scenario lending itself toward safety or success for either horse or new owner.
All the volunteers understood the perilous ramifications of auctioning off wild horses. Yet Kris, more than any other person, took action toward equipping the most dangerous of these refugees. Many a morning she could be found in the most risky stalls of the intensive care facility. While taking every precaution necessary to ensure her safety, her mission was simple: “round pen” the wildest individuals within their twelve-foot stall, until they turned to face her. Once the horse rotated toward her, she would begin building trust by gently touching the muzzle, cheek, and forehead. She consistently repeated this process until she could touch the entire horse without a violent reaction. As she piloted the way, other volunteers followed until the fears of all the critical-care horses were eased enough so that they could be safely haltered and led.
It was March 2, the day before the Millican Horse Rescue Auction. After months of rehabilitative care, our extended family of horses would soon be leaving us, purchased into their new life.
As part of a caravan that was moving all the ICU horses to the fairgrounds, I drove my truck and trailer filled with three young horses. As I followed others before me to the gated main entry behind the barns, a uniformed officer stopped me. Like those before me, he requested my driver’s license to check against a list of those who had clearance to enter. I watched as he tapped it absently against the clipboard that he was searching to find my name. Looking up with a smile, he announced, “You’re good to go, Mrs. Meeder.”
I pulled up into a line of trucks and trailers whose drivers were waiting their turn. All were needed to swing their rigs around and back them up an enormous distance to snug their full trailers directly against the corrals where the horses they carried would spend the night. While waiting, my emotions teetered as if on a high wire, balancing atop all my dichotomous feelings. My head acknowledged that being adopted tomorrow would probably make for one of the best days of their lives. Yet my intuition continued to cry out like a herald, warning of one improbable and negative outcome after another.
Although cleared, what happens if these “buyers” do not have the best of intentions for these horses? This is exactly how the offending couple was able to start what became this present suffering herd. What happens if the buyers are well-intended but inexperienced with wild horses? A year from now, they could sell their horses to someone who appears nice, but who could ultimately turn around and sell them to a meat buyer if they chose to. What happens if these horses are placed in proximity with someone’s children? The children could be unintentionally hurt or even killed by these wary, frightened animals who, apart from most of the ICU horses, are still too wild to handle. Lord, let Your wisdom fall … I prayed while rubbing my brow.
It was now my turn to back up my trailer the crazy distance that separated the line of trucks from the temporary corrals. With all the eyes of the Sheriff’s Department and volunteers watching, I was suddenly grateful that years of living on a tiny ranch had served me well through the necessity of being able to back up anything, anywhere.
Once my horses were settled into their respective corrals, I parked my truck and sought out my special filly. Although I had pushed it down for months, the very real possibility surfaced within me that this could very well be my last day with her. Other buyers were coming who had far more financial power than I. It was possible that the resources I had to purchase this filly … would not be enough.
Understanding the situation from afar, some very dear friends of mine sent financial help all the way from their home in England with the intention of facilitating her purchase. In deepest appreciation of their thoughtful gift, I asked them if they would choose the honor—if it worked out that she would become ours—to name this humble little soul. They responded by sending me several potential name choices. One of their name possibilities instantly rose above all the others. In silence, I hid it within my heart.
All of the preparations for the auction had been completed. Every horse had been moved into the appropriate corral and fitted with a nylon collar that held their bidding number. Every form was filled out, every security measure was in place, all was ready for the horses to be released into a new season. Even though I had helped with many of these tasks and knew these things to be true … fear continued to swamp my heart.
Of all my watery “what ifs,” my deepest pool of doubt contained only one question: “What if someone else buys my girl?” Even with the added gift from my friends, the outcome of this auction was wide open. Not being a woman of great financial means … it was certainly possible.
Hundreds of people were coming from all over the Northwest to buy these horses. The parking area at the fairgrounds was already beginning to fill with trucks pulling large … expensive … horse trailers. Truly, this was the point, the purpose of why so many of us worked so hard to get these refugees prepared for a better life, a new hope. This is what I wanted for all the horses … all but one.
My heart warped with the painful realization that my precious little horse, the least of the least that had survived so much, might not come home with me. Today might possibly be the last day that I would know her, and know she was safe … and that every stinking hair on her homely body was thoroughly and completely loved.
Lord, probably every person who steps up into the stadium with a bidding card tomorrow will have more in their pocket than I have. Any one of them could outbid me for my beloved filly. I love her so much, Lord … help me to rest in Your will, knowing that You will choose what is truly best for her. You have proven throughout my entire life that You are faithful … that You are worthy to be trusted. No matter what happens, if she goes home in my trailer or someone else’s … I trust You, Lord … because I know that You love her more.
After I had spent as much time as I could with my little girl in this new corral, and had given her all the compassion I had … it was time for me to leave her side. Surround her, Lord, with all your protection, grace, and love, I prayed. I secured her gate behind me and quietly walked away. I clearly understood that this might very well be our last moment together.
Early the next morning, rays of sunlight shattered the early gray skies with brilliant, golden spears rising like arrows from the frozen horizon. Today was the day. I was completely brimming with anticipation and fulfillment for all that was to come.
Together, the volunteers had worked hard for months to bring these horses back from the brink of destruction. Today would be the satisfying conclusion of all our combined efforts. I was settled, and my heart was full of peace.
I walked down the hill from our home into the main yard of the ranch and met many of my faithful and warmly dressed staff. We circled together, joining gloved hands, and prayed as a team for the well-being and correct placement of every horse. Frozen breath rose from our circle like the welcome, steaming aroma of our prayers rising toward the Lord. I couldn’t help but imagine, as I often do: Were God’s hands around us … cradling us close to His face … just as we hold a steaming drink on a freezing day? It’s an image that always makes me smile.
It was time. We all loaded up into the ranch truck and carefully pulled down the hill. Our spirits soaring, wide-open hope was as apparent and easy to see as the symbol that we pulled behind us … our empty horse trailer.
The lively, metallic chatter of the auctioneer was punctuated by the animated whoops and hollers of the spotters as they raised their clipboards high with every new bid that came from the full stadium. The main arena at the fairgrounds had been transformed with a ma
ze of metal panels into what turned out to be a very efficient way of making each horse, when its turn to be purchased arrived, easy to view and available to the buyers. The enormous awning, which in the summer gave welcome shade for the seated spectators, on this day cast a broad-mantled shadow that was nearly too cold for many to endure. Most of the buyers and their families sat on coats, blankets, and even bidding cards to help insulate their backsides from the bone-chilling cold of the shiny metal bleachers. But even as cold as it was, any discomfort it might have brought was no match for the bright mood of this day.
Every volunteer was in place, assisting in some specific way to help smooth out the flow of the event. In truth, little could have kept us away from helping our extended family of horses make the transition into their new homes.
The mature stallions were auctioned off first, followed by the adult mares. To the joy of those in the stadium, two mares had already successfully delivered their foals. To the relief of the volunteers, all were healthy. I knew that the young fillies would be next, followed by the colts. The last corrals of horses to be auctioned off would be those who were transported from the intensive care facility. Their makeshift corrals were located far to the right of the stadium. Later, this would mean that anyone who wished to bid on them would have to leave their seat and walk down to the simple maze of corrals to get a better look at these “special need” horses.
I would have to wait to the very end of the day … to know my answer.
All the volunteers were briefed as to how the auction would flow. We knew that the bidding would start at what would be considered fair-market value for each individual. If no one bid on the horse, it would be returned to its former corral, and after the main auction was finished, a “half price” auction would be instated to help sell the “less sellable” horses.
