Horse Lover

by H. Alan Day

  Jerry slid his cowboy hat back and looked me straight in the eye. “I have a long drive back to Sturgis. I’ll be needing to leave now to get there by quitting time.”

  With that, he turned, exited the corral, clicked the gate shut, and walked back to his truck. If he had offered his hand, I’m not sure I could have shaken it. I stood there for a long time, watching the fresh cloud of dust rise above the road and resettle. Anger, frustration, and disappointment rose with it, but instead of dissipating like the dust cloud, they hung heavy in the bitter gray day.

  Questions jammed my mind. How could I kill horses I had worked to save? Would I jeopardize the entire sanctuary if I disobeyed this direct order? Could I call someone higher than Jerry in the agency? Could I hide twenty-five horses and get away with it? My code of ethics insisted I honor the contract with the BLM. It also said to honor my contract with the horses. I couldn’t do both. But how could I choose one?

  When John rode up an hour later, I relayed the BLM’s orders.

  “You never know what’s coming next from those guys. What in the hell are they thinking?” He paced in front of me. “For some reason, they can’t see into the workings of this ranch.”

  We hunkered down in my office for a brainstorming session before dinner. We sorted through every option, spread them out like a deck of cards face up on the table. But no matter how we arranged them, we could never create a hand other than the one I had been dealt.

  Megan came in to announce dinner and invite me to join the family.

  “You’re going to have to make up your mind on this one, Al,” John said, standing.

  I nodded in agreement. Megan grabbed my hand to pull me out of the chair, but a ball of resignation weighed me down. I gave her a hug and told her and John to go on to the house without me.

  The question raged within me as to whether the BLM or I had the right to play God. Yes, a natural death might involve suffering. A thin horse could freeze in a blizzard or live with pain in its joints before dying in its sleep. Cruel, perhaps, but natural. Would it be right to shortchange that process? Our culture hadn’t made it a policy to arbitrarily hasten the deaths of elderly human beings who could potentially suffer before dying. Why should we do that with horses? Old age is a part of life, and we were set up to assist the horses as they transitioned through that stage.

  I turned these questions over and over in my darkening office.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that I never assigned a job I wouldn’t do myself. If I had an ugly job to do and I couldn’t do it, it would remain undone, because no one was going to do it for me, including a vet, who would be at least a half a day away and would require the involvement of the cowboys. John was right. The buck stopped with me. I didn’t want to involve anyone else in this dirty deed. It was my job and mine alone.

  I never did eat dinner that night.

  As dawn cast a dull light through the bedroom window, I listened for the usual sounds. There were none. The morning entered strangely silent. It had been a sleepless night, one spent wrestling with my conscience. Would I betray the BLM—my boss—or the horses—my charges? I awoke with a sharp urge to be done with this mission. I had not discussed this with anyone but John. Not Sue, or Alan Jr., or any other usual confidante. It would only have extended my struggle because, as John said, ultimately I had to decide how to handle this horrific assignment.

  I pulled myself out of bed and dressed. From the front hall closet, I grabbed my rifle and stuffed a box of shells in my coat pocket. The rifle would be more accurate than the .357 Magnum pistol used for euthanizing a horse with a broken leg or one that was otherwise disabled and already lying on the ground. Then you’re shooting from two feet away. These horses wouldn’t let me get that close.

  I walked the two hundred yards to the corral. No employee appeared. Why would anyone choose to be part of this? They would respect my decision no matter what I chose to do; they loved the horses as much as I did.

  I opened the gate and stepped into the corral. The twenty-five horses were peacefully stirring and grazing on the hay we had fed them. They noticed my presence. Two of them moved toward me, then whinnied and snorted. These horses knew me. I believe they liked me. For certain, they had learned to trust me. I had, these past few years, learned to look away from their eyes. This was part of our secret language, our code of respect.

  I stood among the chosen. They were old and thin, you betcha, but deserving this fate? I think not. I had signed on to save animals. My dreams did not include betrayal. I wanted this whole ordeal over.

  The first one was a dun mare with a big head and several scars on her front legs. I cocked the rifle, looked her straight in the eyes, and shot her cleanly between them.

  She slumped to the ground in one big downward motion. Blood flowed from the wound, ran across her nose, and dribbled to the ground. It stained the straw red. “Oh my God,” I thought. “It’s the same blood, the blood Wild Horse Annie saw on the pavement. Oh my God, what have I done?”

  I froze in front of the mare’s corpse, unaware that the loud gunshot had only slightly startled the other horses. I was surprised that they didn’t skitter at the noise, but they trusted me. They went back to grazing, seemingly unaware that a horse had gone down.

  What am I doing here? Why don’t I save these twenty-four? Where could I hide them? Hide them from the assholes who ordered them dead. How ironic that this whole wild horse business was about me living my dream. In that instant I felt totally betrayed. What was I doing in this godforsaken place? My thoughts dodged past the events about to happen in the corral, ran around them like a cowboy racing around barrels.

  “I hate these horses. I hate this ranch. I hate the government,” I yelled as loud as I could.

  Strangely, the horses remained calm. They trusted me and I was about to completely destroy that trust. They didn’t know enough to be frightened. One began to slowly walk toward me. Was he my next victim? Oh my God, I thought, I can’t do this. But here he came. One old, very brave, very stupid, wild horse. This was not my dream. This was a nightmare.

  The other men knew what was going on and stayed away. They knew I would handle it. I needed one of them to walk in there with me and tell me it was okay, that I was doing the right thing. No one came. I stood up straighter. I aimed for his head and dropped him cleanly. Twenty-three more to go.

  I stopped thinking.

  I didn’t pray.

  I was there but I wasn’t there.

  I floated above looking down at the scene, saw myself sob and yell and curse. I yelled at those son-of-a-bitch good-for-nothing horses to stand still.

  Then I methodically shot them all dead.

  I walked straight to the house, put my rifle in the closet, and grabbed my keys. It was thirty miles to Valentine. Somehow I got there and did who knows what for a few hours until my senses came out of shock enough to return to the ranch. When I arrived I could plainly see the multiple furrows in the sand where the horses had been dragged with our tractor out of the corral and over the hill north of the ranch to the pit we had dug for the carcasses of horses that might die. Even though I had not told anyone to bury the remains, the employees knew what needed to be done and did the job. That day, the pit almost overflowed.

  The ranch hands and I never discussed the incident. Even John didn’t utter a word about it. I don’t know if the BLM ever ordered other large bunches of horses to be euthanized, but if they did I wonder whom they recruited to do the job. I could never do anything like that again.

  For weeks afterward I could walk, talk, work, and eat but my mind was numb. Colors appeared as mere shades of gray. I was just going through the motions of living. Inside my feelings were so large and raw I didn’t know how to handle them.

  Time is our friend when we feel sorrow. Events become less vivid as time passes and we can sometimes return to a level of normalcy. I finally stuffed the whole episode in a mental box and shoved it on a shelf somewhere inside me. It’s still there an
d I open the box only on rare occasions. The pain that greets me still stabs.

  I don’t like to think about what I did. I try not to feel bad. I try not to feel guilty and I don’t analyze. I just know that my dreams for the wild horses were diminished by the fate of those twenty-five. When I think back on the wonderful years at the sanctuary, this black memory hovers in the background like a cloud of unsettled dust.

  19.

  An Unlucky Penny

  The stack of printed pages had to be six inches high. I carefully set it in the box Debbie found for me, then taped the box shut and wrote my name and address on top of it. I planned to leave tomorrow morning to deliver the package to the Bureau of Land Management’s office in Denver.

  It took three weeks to complete this project. Actually, it wasn’t a project; it was a bid to keep the wild horses. The BLM had called to remind me that every four years the agency was required to rebid the sanctuary. Anyone with enough land and grass, the proper corrals, and handling facilities could submit a proposal to assume custody and care of the eight hundred horses living on Mustang Meadows Ranch. I hung up the phone baffled. I had assumed rebidding wouldn’t be necessary. We ran a well-oiled operation that received the highest marks with every inspection. As long as we were doing an exemplary job, why change things?

  John shook his head when I told him about the bidding. “Something’s going on at levels we can’t see. And if you can’t see the problem, how can you fix it?”

  The next day I hauled up to the BLM office in Sturgis for a face-to-face chat with the district director.

  “I can’t change government regulations, Al,” he said before I had a sip of coffee.

  “But you have a proven product with us. With someone new, you won’t have any assurances that the mustangs will be taken care of in the same manner.” He shrugged away my cowboy concern. I tried stepping into his bureaucratic shoes. They pinched. “Think of the increased cost. The BLM has to pay to gather the horses, administer blood tests, vaccinate, and ship them to a new location.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t need to have a monopoly here. I would guess the BLM owns more unadoptable horses than they’ve shipped to me. Why not create other sanctuaries? Re-up my contract and add to it? There are more than a few horse people out there interested in having a sanctuary. I’d be honored to consult with someone on how to get up and running and train a bunch of horses.”

  In addition to the 20/20 segment, Mustang Meadows had been featured in a slew of newspaper and magazine articles. The publicity generated a steady dribble of visitors, mainly other horse lovers and ranchers curious to see our operation. Some stayed on the ranch for an hour or two, others for an entire day. They barraged me with questions about managing the horses and working with the BLM. A handful of people said, “How do I get one?” As far as I was concerned, anybody could lobby for a sanctuary.

  My thoughts returned to the horses. “Moving the mustangs will traumatize them. We’ve spent four years working hard to minimize their stressors. My crew and I know these horses and they recognize us. We’re comfortable with each other. Plus, the horses are even trained.”

  “I’m sure they could readjust,” the director said.

  Did this fellow have any idea how a distressed horse looked and acted? How different that animal was from a Happy or Blue or Sally? Why did the horses’ welfare seem to matter least?

  “It’s such a waste to start at ground zero,” I mumbled, mostly to myself.

  The bidding process turned out to be more detailed and cumbersome than I remembered. I completed forms, obtained maps, copied records. I still had an unsettling feeling about the entire situation. An inner voice told me it would be a good idea to personally deliver the bid to the BLM office on the exact day it was requested. Hence the six-hour drive to Denver on April 3, 1993, deadline day.

  The slate sky hung low over the Nebraska and eastern Colorado freeways. By the time I hit the outskirts of Denver, snow flurried and melted on the windshield. Eventually, after a string of wrong turns, I pulled into the BLM parking lot. I lifted the box from the passenger seat and walked into the procurement office. A secretary greeted me and asked how she could be of assistance.

  “I’m delivering a bid for the wild horse sanctuary. I believe the official bid opening is today.” I pushed the box across the counter toward her. She frowned.

  “I don’t think today is the bid date,” she said.

  “The rep I spoke with a few weeks ago said it was due April third.”

  “I think that date changed.” The woman turned to another woman sitting at a desk. “Do you know anything about the deadline for bids on the wild horse sanctuary?” An uncomfortable feeling pooled in my stomach.

  “I’m pretty certain it’s later in the month.” She started rifling through a stack of papers.

  “Let me find out for sure,” said the first woman. She grabbed the box and walked with it into a nearby office. Muffled voices filtered out. The secretary returned, box in hand. “The bid date was postponed to April thirteenth.” She gave me a funny look. “Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I was never contacted.” Red flags shot up around me. Warning. Danger. “Why didn’t anyone contact me? I’m the one who has the horses!”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Day. Maybe they did and you didn’t get the message?”

  The BLM knew darn well how to get a hold of me. For the first time in my life I couldn’t think what to do or which way to turn. Something felt wrong. Way out of whack. Usually I could plumb my inner thoughts, dive down, and quickly find an answer suspended in my consciousness. But not this time. I stood at the counter, my mind paddling in circles. The woman looked at the clock.

  “Well, I came all this way . . .”

  I thought of the past month and the hard work that went into the bid, thought of the long drive here and the return drive facing me. Frustration and a sudden weariness took hold of me. The red flags waved wildly, but they appeared too far away to grab.

  “I guess . . . um, do you suppose, well, maybe I could leave it here?”

  “Absolutely, you can leave it here.” She reached for the box. For a moment, both our hands held it. I let go.

  By the time I merged onto the freeway, I regretted leaving that box. I was all but certain events were being played out behind my back. When the sanctuary was coming together, the BLM initiated conversations and meetings. They visited the ranch numerous times. Dayton and I had the lead roles in the performance. Even though we dreamed up the sanctuary and I provided land, cared for horses, trained them, and loved them, it was plain to see my role had diminished. I wasn’t even an understudy. I felt like an extra, and a dispensable one at that.

  And if that was the case, where would that leave me? I could wallow in self-pity and grief, wring my hands in failure, and view myself as a victim. But to what end? Rather than crashing to the hard ground, I had always opted for the soft landing. I could find a new project. Add to an existing one. Maybe a new adventure would surface. Mostly, I needed to believe that luck remained stuffed in my back pocket. Land on your feet, big boy, I lectured myself, just like you’ve always done. Figure out what to do next. I had six long hours to think about it.

  John and I spent most of April 13 working the meadow—checking the circular sprinklers, spreading alfalfa seed. The shadows had lengthened by the time I stomped my boots on the doublewide’s doorstep and headed to my office. Sure enough, the BLM had left a message. Colorado was an hour behind so the fellow who called would still be there. I plopped in my desk chair and dialed his number. A smidgen of hope struggled for air.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Day. Thank you for returning my call,” said a deep, unfamiliar voice. “You submitted a bid on the sanctuary and as you know those bids were opened today. I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that the bid has been awarded to another party.”

  Even when you expect it, the worst can still drive a hard one-two punch. “How much was I underbid?”r />
  The man on the other end cleared his throat. “You bid $1.15 per head per day. The winning bid was $1.14 per head per day.”

  I leaned forward. “I’m sorry. Did you say $1.14 per horse?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, sir, I did.”

  It was like I stepped in a puddle with a live wire. That bid underbid mine by one penny per horse per day. “You mean to tell me that I lost this contract because my bid was one cent too high?”

  I could hear papers being shuffled. “If you break it down, yes, that would be the case.”

  The thought slammed me: this is no coincidence. Was the BLM really capable of pulling such an elementary, stupid, transparent trick?

  “Who got the contract?”

  “The Tadpole Cattle Company.”

  “That’s not a name I know. Where are they located?”

  “Down in Oklahoma. John Hughes owns it.”

  That name I knew. Two years ago, Hughes had been one of those visitors to the sanctuary. We had spent a day walking around headquarters and driving out to look at the horses. I shared a lot of information about feed, grazing, and general mustang maintenance. I even explained how we trained the horses and how they easily moved between pastures. “Hell, I have a feed truck,” he said. “I could just bait them with feed and get them to move.” He never directly stated that he wanted a sanctuary but he sure seemed interested. I didn’t know anything about this man or his operation and certainly wasn’t going to blame him for my predicament.

  “Has anyone bothered to do the accounting on this? I’ve shipped cattle from Oklahoma before. The whole shipping process, including blood testing, vaccinating, and transportation, will cost at least eighty dollars per head. The government isn’t going to recoup its cost for years.” My mind reeled through the math. If the government saved $3.65 per head per year, it would take about twenty-two years to recover the cost of moving the mustangs. And this made sense how?

  “We have to go by the bids, Mr. Day.”

  Fuming, screaming, reasoning—nothing was going to budge the fortress in front of me. I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “Is there a way to appeal the decision?”