The Somerset Horses

It's the fourth day with those invisible hands around my throat. The slow rise of the dull burn from the bottom of my neck to my jawline. The heat washes over my face and the tears well up in my eyes. I will my eyelids not to overflow, because I know that once I start, I won't be able to stop. I don't want the ragged breaths and heaving sobs that are carefully quelled just below my sternum. The voice in my head says, get back to work, do more, find out more. And so I do.

When I found out about the horror that existed just down the road from my quiet, peaceful farmhouse, I was sitting on the steps of side porch, watching the dogs in the yard as they sniffed, and pulling old blooms off of the mum next to me and the pumpkin. My phone dinged its familiar ding, and since we live so far out in the country and only get intermittent phone service, I knew I better take a look at whatever it was, while it was still working. It was a link in a FB message to a press release from our local Sheriffs office describing a possible seizure and search of a local horse farm. My brain flashed back to my coworker telling me of the local farm with more than 100 horses, the owner not paying her employees and firing people, the horses getting less care, the money she had, the local authorities not responding, the frustration of the former workers. It came in pieces my memory of this conversation, but it was MONTHS ago, surely something had been done, surely this wasn't the same farm, surely it wasn't this close to my home and I didn't know about it.

I picked up the phone and called my boss, the owner of a large local horse farm. Maybe she would know who this was and tell me it wasn't as bad as it sounded. My dog sat down next to me on the steps and the sun fell behind the trees. My boss didn't remember the conversation, she said to call my coworker. I called and texted and stared at my phone for a response. I grew frantic. I have learned the hard way to trust my gut, and my gut said this was real.

She called my back and my phone dropped the call. I called her back and there it was. The confirmation that it was the farm just down the road. A road I had never been down- so very close to me. Then came the pictures by text. The dead horses. The pelvic bones so sharply jutting out that I knew that there was no rehabbing a horse in that condition. Even still standing, that horse was already sentenced to death. And then there it was, the hitch in my breath, the heat rising to my face, and the gripped taughtness in my neck. On my screen was a blood spattered stall wall, underneath was a horse, with neck curled, eye bashed in. This animal had gone down and tried over and over to get up, bashing its head against the wall trying to get its front legs unfolded to right itself. This horse had died in agony. It was the first time I pushed down the tears. I knew I had to help. I knew there were up to 100 horses there. My skill set, though odd, would be useful to whomever was going to sieze these horses. I can catch almost anything, I can intelligently and accurately assess basic veterinary needs, I can administer first aid, I can manage people, I can get almost anything to get on a trailer, but most of all, I can spread the word.

Though I hadn't formally volunteered for a rescue in VA, I messaged my friend that does and she put me in touch with Hope's Legacy Equine Rescue. I basically forced my presence at the next day's seizure on the director of the rescue. She didn't know me at all, I probably scared her with my zealous recruitment of foster homes. I knew I couldn't take one at my personal barn because I can't adequately care for four horses alone with a partially paralyzed wrist/hand plus formally quarantine another while maintaining a full time job. That reality kills me, but there's no point in rescuing an animal and taking it to another situation of less than perfect care. These horses would need an extraordinary amount of educated and conscientious attention from lifelong horsemen/women. This was not a job for those that haven't had rehab experience or those that were just hobby horsemen, or the one armed girl, (me). So I sent out the call. God Bless the power of social media. In minutes, I had foster homes for seven horses, hay donations, and the word was spreading. I prayed a quick prayer that I could be beneficial for these horses, and I tried to go to sleep.

I texted my boss at 6:35 am that I would be at the seizure farm today and not at work. I made oatmeal that I forgot about and left on the counter and did laundry and took a long shower where I tried to predict and prepare for what I might see. Surely the owner would not be present. Someone must have a plan for how this is going to go. Should I bring hay? I threw an old halter and lead rope in the car and put on an old pair of rain boots. I might have to throw them away after this if conditions are really bad. I put a change of clothes in my car and some baby wipes. I couldn't go to my own barn after without changing clothes. I couldn't risk my horse or the others if these guys were unvaccinated or ill. My phone was blowing up with texts and messages offering help with transport and warnings to be strong. I told the dogs that I would be home later and that this might be a hard day. My poodle jumped the baby gate and ran to me. She knew I needed one more moment of love.

I rolled slowly up the gravel road past the pumpkin patch and turned down the driveway. I was greeted by a Deputy who asked for my name and phone number and I told him
I was there to help load horses onto trailers. There were two trailers there already forming a line in the driveway. I got out of my car and the lady in front of me told me we had to stay there because another horse had collapsed and they didn't want anyone but the vets and Animal Control in the barnyard right now. She told me where she was from and what rescue she was doing transport for and about her own horses. I tried to listen, but her voice was just a hum in the background of my thoughts. A large truck rumbled up the driveway with a tall sided construction dumpster on the back. It took me a second to realize it's function. I watched it disappear into the barnyard and then I heard the tractor start up. One. Two. Three. Plops into the dumpster. I knew what the plops were. Dead horses.

A lady I didn't recognize arrived and she knew the first lady I talked to. She looked at me as I stood there with a questioning look on her face and I introduced myself and told her my function. She said, "Have you put in an application to be a foster home?"
Before I answered she said, "Because no horses are going to foster homes that aren't pre-approved." I explained for a moment that I wasn't a foster home and tried to comfort her distrust of me by telling her that I was there in place of one of her long time volunteers who had to work. Then I was interrupted by, "Are you Ellie?"  Whew. A friendly face. It was Maya from Hope's Legacy Equine Rescue whom I had spoken to the night before. More familiar faces arrived from Equine Rescue League in Keswick. My vet and his assistant arrived and we all waited.

I thought for a moment about my less than welcoming greeting from the first rescue director. I got it. I knew she'd seen the crazy people that show up at hoarding situations to increase their own hoard. I understood her distrust of a new face and that her stress level was perhaps in the stratosphere knowing that every single foster home she knew, every single stall she has and every single cent in her account, was about to be used. Although I didn't think it prudent for her to turn me away without even a few questions at a time like this, I knew I had found a place to deposit my desire to help and my web of connections that were just waiting on the word about what was needed, and that was with Hope's Legacy. I felt comfortable with Maya and compelled to help her with whatever I could.

The lady in brown with the badges and the bulky belt accessories arrived to speak to us. She looked as if she had seen more than she was comfortable with that morning. Behind her smile was sadness and her joking demeanor seemed to just barely cover what surely were those same invisible hands on her throat. She explained to us that the owner was willingly surrendering all but 35 animals but that the situation was precariously hinged on the woman's decision. At any point she could stop the whole thing. There would have to be a hearing in order for the animals to be formally siezed. That meant they would have to wait there in her (lack of) care. Some of these horses didnt have another few days.

My anger at this woman, though palpable throughout my entire being, would have to be hidden. My disbelief that she would be allowed to keep 35 animals, or even one animal, would have to be put in the same place as my tears. She was there, and she wasn't in handcuffs or a straight jacket or locked into a cage with no food or water, or any of the other places I wanted her to be. She was leaning against the fence, totally free, to watch a community of rescues and volunteers come to clean up her mess. A mess that could've been prevented 1000 times by a ton of people if she had chosen, just once, to do the right thing for the horses in her care. But she didn't, and me being angry at her gave her power over me and the situation, so I focused my energy on the horses. Horses, thats where Im comfortable. Thats where I can make a difference.

The first trailer rolled up to the barnyard and I watched as they loaded mostly donkeys. I could barely see the other horses from where I stood, but I could see a Deputy on his phone while struggling to open and close the gate to the barnyard from the pasture while preventing horses from escaping back into the pasture. Bingo. Non-horse people don't typically feel comfortable with large animals threatening to run over them, especially while trying to make phone calls. I walked quickly to the gate and scooted him right over.

Part 2 coming soon.