Bridge Called Hope (6 page)

Thankfully, all good things must come to an end. I was exactly one moment away from discovering if a human being can actually blow her own head off with explosive laughter … when my little “high flyer” finished his mission, returned everything to its proper place, and pulled his pants back up.

My relief spread like a hound on a porch. I could feel the muscles in my jaw begin to relax and the natural shape of my mouth returning. Obviously, seeing my ridiculous facial contortions, the sweet-but-distressed woman in front of me must
have thought I was either the biggest drama queen on earth or the most over-emotional sap she had ever seen!

All was going well again—until my little blond friend, who was still standing within arm’s reach of my guests, realized that his hand was “wet.” I stealthily observed him study his wet hand. He just didn’t seem to know what to do. His little brain churned with the realization that to wipe pee on your own clothes would be yucky.

So, according to his three-year-old sense of logic, he did the next best thing. He wiped dry his pee-soaked hand … on his head. The
top
of his head … on the exact spot that I had just kissed!

O
nce again, fall was descending on the high desert. Each frosty night gave way to a new dawn full of more color than the last. The trees on the ranch seemed to join in an unwritten melody, all singing together, through their dramatic transformation, of the sheer glory of life. Each year I can’t help but imagine that this is how nature gives one last glorious “hoorah!” before the deep rest of winter’s white falls.

After walking up the hill toward our home, I kicked the edge of the deck to clean off my boots before going inside. Like taking a deep breath, I took one last, long look at the view. I was deeply struck by how the simplicity of man-made things was absolutely no match for the magnificent autumn wonder that clothed the ranch below. Anyone who knows me understands how much more my heart desires to stay in God’s masterpiece of creation … than to go into my office. But, we do what we must to keep going forward.

Following my evening routine of taking off my hat and putting my sunglasses inside, it was time to finally sit. While leaning back in my office chair, I put my boots on the edge of my desk and thumbed through my daily messages. Immediately, a note confirming that Virginia had called earlier caught my
attention. Virginia and her twin sister, Vicki, are close friends who work together on an enormous horse ranch just ten miles west of ours. Knowing my friend, she usually calls when she has a fun, horse-related message. I returned her call first.

She began by explaining that she and her sister had just returned home from a “buyers” trip to a Canadian PMU farm. Her rapid-fire recount of the trip quite suddenly came to an abrupt pause. “Please know that what I am about to share with you in no way obligates you or your ranch in any way. In our purchase, we acquired a very special little horse that I would love for you to come and see …”

I whipped my hat back on my head before it was cold. I quickly rationalized, “Dinner is overrated and any excuse is good enough for me to go and look at horses.” Laughing to myself, I shoved a power bar into my pocket and headed back out the front door.

While driving the distance between our two ranches, I tried to piece together all of the fragments of information that Virginia had just given me. I wasn’t sure what I was about to see when I arrived at her place. They had just brought down one hundred weanlings, who were now in a very large corral recuperating from their 1,200-mile journey.

In addition to being identical twins, Virginia and Vickie are well known in Central Oregon for many things. Together with their employer, they purchased the freedom of several hundred industry horses and brought them home to begin a new life in Oregon.

Aside from their excellent work ethic and easy humor, they, more than all others combined, have brought PMU awareness and action to our beautiful state.

PMU is an acronym for Pregnant Mare Urine, which is
the source of hormones used to create the enormously popular hormone replacement therapy drug called Premarine. It’s also used in many over-the-counter “anti-aging” cosmetics. Harvesting mare urine for these products has been going on for the last sixty years. This is done by placing mares in a specialized “collection” stall. This space, which becomes their home for six months or more, is not wide enough for them to turn around in or lay down flat. Once they deliver their foal, the mares are immediately rebred, because it is only when they are pregnant that they produce the highly sought-after hormones. The resulting foals, especially the colts, are of little value to these farms, and are routinely sent to feedlots where most are sold for slaughter.

Seeing the great need to intervene for these imperiled foals, Virginia and Vicki began their mission. By purchasing quantities of weanling colts and fillies, they initially hoped to train them up for numerous “dude strings” throughout the area. As these young horses entered the community and started proving themselves, their popularity began to soar.

As most who have ever owned animals understand, it is relatively easy to find homes for young, cute, pliable individuals. Sadly, the aged, broken, and fearful ones do not have this ease afforded to them.

When studies revealed that cancer could be linked to Hormone Replacement Therapy treatment, drug sales dropped dramatically and suddenly 30,000 PMU mares were out of work. At their age, and being large, heavy horses with virtually no training or socialization, nearly all were in grave peril of being slaughtered.

When the devastating news of the PMU mares’ jeopardy reached Virginia and Vicki, they did more than just feel bad
for them. Instead of only “feeling,” they
acted
.

In what could perhaps be an Oregon-to-Alberta-to-Oregon turnaround speed record, they purchased as many mares as their convoy could move. Their final tally was 240 pregnant mares—all of whom now have a safe home and will never be in danger of slaughter again. However, any accolade that might be given to either of the dynamic twins would just be matter-of-factly shrugged off. While punctuated with an expression of satisfaction, they would merely view it as all in another day’s work.

Even though PMU farms have been in existence since 1942, it has only been in the last decade that urine harvesting practices have been more readily revealed. The horses involved in this industry are primarily heavy draft and draft crosses. This is to ensure greater volumes of urine per horse. A fifteen-hundred-pound mare will produce more than a nine hundred-pound mare.

The horses are fitted with one of two methods of collection. Either they are internally cauterized or they are fitted with an external device. The hose that exits their body empties into a plastic container outside the horse’s stall.

To create a greater concentration of estrogen in the urine, the horses are given only a limited amount of water. This combined with trying to grow a foal with little or no exercise often results in severe infections within the mare’s liver and kidneys. Although most horses’ normal life span is around thirty years of age, it is not uncommon for PMU mares to not survive past the second trimester of life because of their abnormal stress load.

Until recently, most of the surviving colt population was sold to the slaughter market, while the fillies would be kept to replace their rapidly depleting mothers. All this equine woe continues today in support of an antiquated drug that has
already been replicated synthetically in a much purer form. It has been estimated that since its inception, more than one million horses have perished within this industry.

Currently, many PMU farms will host an annual autumn foal sale. Some do this solely to boost their bottom line and some because they honestly wish a better life for the livestock that supports them. Either way, things are slowly beginning to change for the horses born into this archaic industry.

One of the foundations for this change is the widespread recognition that these draft-crossed babies grow up into incredibly versatile horses. As they filter into the working horse world, they are turning heads as remarkable trail, mountain, pack, and all-around family horses. Because of their impressive size, bone structure, and movement, they are commanding respect in nearly every show venue as well.

My attention snapped back to Virginia, who was waiting for me when I pulled into her driveway only moments later. In unison, we entered the corral where all of her new arrivals were munching on hay.

As we walked amongst them, they parted before us like a dodging school of very large fish. While we strolled together, we briefly discussed the current status of the remaining PMU farms. Within this conversation, my friend laughed at her own joke: “I mean really … what woman would knowingly want to rub horse pee all over her face or dose it down with a glass of water?”

Virginia went on to fill in the details of her earlier account. “The ranch where we buy these youngsters is 1,200 miles away, deep within the province of Alberta in Canada. It is located not far from the foot of the Canadian Rockies … beautiful, but wild. During our few days at the PMU farm, they shot five bears that
had become so brazen that they were coming in and killing the horses. Because of the horses’ confinement, they had become easy targets for the marauding bears. Many of the foals did not survive.

“While we were in Canada, our hosts drove approximately three hundred pairs of mares and foals into the squeeze chutes to be sorted apart from each other. As they came through the chutes, Vicki and I had about thirty seconds per foal to determine if we wanted to buy them. Instantly they were released into another large holding pen where they were permanently separated from their mother.”

I could hear Virginia’s voice change subtly as she shifted her thoughts toward the reason why I was there. “The mothers and babies always come through together, usually with the mother in front of the foal. One pair came through and a wrangler noticed that the foal had sustained a bear attack. The colt’s whole hind end was involved, with most of the extensive damage done on his left rump and hamstring. They were going to ‘cull’ him out, which usually means an unfortunate end … but I just couldn’t let that happen.

“When I saw him, I was surprised at how small he was. He couldn’t have been more than a few months old. He still needed to be at his mother’s side. I just felt like he was pleading for my help. He could survive these wounds if he was given a chance. That’s all he needed … just a chance.”

“That’s when I thought of you … and felt that if he could survive the two-day trip home, smashed in with dozens of others who were twice his size, he was meant to be yours.” As she looked at me, I could see that her heart had been greatly moved by this tiny colt.

“At every sale there is a veterinarian present to inspect each
animal that will cross the border into the U.S. They are instructed to pull all horses that exhibit any lumps, bumps, obvious swelling, or open wounds. We had three foals pulled from our herd because of random swellings. I had hardly finished telling the hosts that I would gladly pay to have this pitiful little colt vetted until he was cleared for travel, when suddenly the attending vet just waved him on through as ‘fit to continue.’

“We loaded up the ‘kids’ and drove six hours to the U.S. line, and then had to unload everyone for their final border inspection. For the second time in a day, an inspector looked right at him and gave the order to load him back into the trailer!

“I never thought that I would be happy to have a truckload of muddy babies … but I realize now that I sure am grateful for all the muck on the littlest one! Who knew that a little well-placed mud on a wound could open palace doors?”

Bathed in the beautiful light of early evening, Virginia and I continued our search through the herd for this special little babe who had already survived so much. The enclosure for the young horses was very large and supplied with a half dozen or more giant bales of hay for the youngsters to free-choice graze from. Even in their exhaustion, the horses were still wary of human approach. The entire corral moved like a lazy river of shifting, eating, and napping infants. “You won’t believe it when you see him … he is such a cutie patutie!”

I laughed out loud at her trademark nickname of adoration.

“Look for the smallest baby in the herd; he is a beautiful buckskin. Did I mention that he has a wide blaze and three high white socks?”

I glanced at Virginia. She amazed me. Her brain was a virtual horse-sorting computer. In all her years of dealing with horses,
thousands of horses
, she never forgot a single detail, not
a snipe, a blaze, a sock, or a stripe. She remembered them all, each for their very best attributes, each with much affection.

“There he is!” she said, and pointed to a small herd of about a dozen youngsters who were moving away from us.

I looked but saw no buckskin among them. I looked back at Virginia and verified the direction she was pointing, but still did not see him. When we turned directly toward the small group, they parted like a flock of birds. Virginia was right; hidden amongst the bigger, stronger weanlings was a tiny golden baby.