Bridge Called Hope (15 page)

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.

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 entering 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.”