Second Chances

Horse Rehab in the Real World
by Catherine Madera

I knew what sort of horse I was looking for: something young and cheap. A healthy, unspoiled animal that with a minimum of invested time might be sold for a profit. That’s the story I told myself, anyway.

Scrolling down the list of hard luck and despairing ads, I knew one thing was in my favor—the season. In early December, few things are less appealing than caring for a horse in the Pacific Northwest.

It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. The horse fit all my criteria right down to the color; healthy weanling filly, cheap, and bay. I’ll take a conservative bay over flashy spots every time.

Unfortunately, the deal fell through. It seemed an unbelievable coincidence when, that very night, my husband stuck a piece of paper under my nose while he talked on the phone. “Free horse,” it read, followed by a phone number. All horsemen know that the Free Horse falls into the same category as the Free Car: both mostly useful as lawn ornaments. Still, I couldn’t help calling the number. It took exactly five seconds to be disappointed.

“Yep, gotta seven-year-old Arabian stallion. Got no time for ‘im.”

Further information revealed the horse was unbroke. I was invited to take a look at the stud while the owner was at work. If I wanted him, he was all mine. Anyone with good sense would have resisted the urge to see what she already knew was undesirable. I decided to take a look at the horse.

As it turned out, the horse lived close by in a narrow sliver of pasture that followed a gravel drive. He stood in a corner of his pen in the icy rain, picking listlessly at a pile of dirty hay.

At first I just stood at the gate, looking the animal over. He was small—no more than 14 hands—and missing about a third of his body weight. Skin sagged over the protruding croup bone like the sides of a collapsing tent. His neck, conspicuously missing a proud stallion crest, sprouted a head overly big for its body. A filthy pinto hide draped his skeleton; the long bi-colored mane hung in a tangle of knots. A knackers horse. Those were the words that came to mind. I approached slowly.

“Hey, pal.”

The horse looked at me briefly, then lowered his head to pick at the hay. He didn’t seem dangerous or fearful so I fit a halter on him and pulled on the lead rope. He alternated between following me haltingly and balking like a mule.

“Great. Seven years old and he can’t lead,” I said to the friend I'd brought with me. It didn’t take long to see all I needed to see.

“You gonna take him?” my friend asked as we drove home.

“I don’t know. I should just call somebody.”

No doubt somebody—a rescue, the authorities, an unsuspecting horse owner—would be thrilled to have a starving, ugly, untrained stallion dumped in their backyard, just in time for Christmas.

The horse broke out of his apathy long enough to follow the fence line after our car, nickering. I felt a pang of sympathy. I’d read all the articles about the glut of unwanted horses on the market, the ones left tied to trees or starved dead in their own pastures. I felt bad, to be sure, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. The girl who had once saved every fallen bird and feral stray had grown up and grown realistic. There was only one sensible end for that horse, and it wasn’t a good one.

But later that night as I stood in my warm kitchen, staring out the window into the inky chill, I pictured the stallion huddling in his frozen paddock. I could call “someone,” or I could see what I could do. At least I could feed him. My eye caught an early Christmas card perched behind the sink—a picture of the nativity. Christmas...the season of second chances. Maybe I was meant to do something for that horse.

I made arrangements to pick the stallion up the next weekend. Amazingly, he jumped in the trailer, legs shaking, after only a few minutes.

As anyone who has rehabbed a starving horse knows, the animal you start out with is not the animal you actually have. A few groceries work a metamorphosis that is remarkable and sometimes unnerving.

After a few days of eating grass hay 24/7, the stallion’s feed was increased to include grain and alfalfa. He began to perk up, pacing the confines of the round pen and calling to the other horses. My stomach churned as I watched his behavior. I had no experience with stallions and had foolishly allowed a horse on my property that could very likely hurt me or my family. My feelings were confirmed the day I attempted to lead “Chance” out of his round pen.

He was quiet and easy to halter. Turning my back to the horse, I began to open the gate. A sudden punch to the shoulder nearly knocked me down. Shaking, I turned toward Chance, unsure whether to drop the lead rope and run or stand my ground. He regarded me coolly, as if to say, “There, now that you know the order of things we’ll get along fine.”

After that I dug into any information on stallion handling I could find. Chance would be gelded soon enough, but the horse needed to be managed safely in the meantime. I began regular short training sessions with him that simply involved leading and, eventually, lunging.

Chance acted deceptively calm as long as he did what he wanted. When asked to move, however, he had two responses: charging and striking at the handler, or stiffening his body and bolting in the opposite direction. I learned to watch him closely to know which method he would use. Often, he gave a husky nicker just before rearing and striking. The sound set my nerves on edge.

I didn’t even attempt to be the horse’s friend, initially. Respect for human beings needed to come first. He was not allowed to approach my personal space or turn his hindquarters to me. To control his outbursts I used a thin rawhide bosal fit snugly over his nose and a dressage whip. As soon as possible I altered his gender. While that began to help with attitude, it was no magic pill for the horse’s challenging behavior.

Chance was a mess of insecurities that resulted in a horse that wouldn’t allow his feet to be handled, couldn’t tolerate the close proximity of other horses, and pulled back when tied. Additionally, the horse that had first loaded like a dream now had a violent aversion to my trailer. He pitched and plunged like a fish on a line when I tried to load him. The first time I was successful in trailering him, I arrived at my destination to an interesting dilemma. As I listened to Chance strike the trailer repeatedly and throw himself against the walls, I was as afraid to leave him in as I was to unload him.

Chance reminded me of the small, scrappy kid in school who came from an unhappy home. Always ready to punch someone out, he nonetheless wanted a friend, someone to depend on. 

Progress came slowly but surely. I began riding Chance four months after bringing him home. Besides basic under saddle work, he learned to allow hoof handling and became confident in the trailer. Rather than pacing and pulling when tied, he’d stand with a leg cocked in relaxation. Though pleased with his progress, it was the horse’s mental and emotional state I hoped to affect long term. An aloof and independent spirit, his mind was hard to penetrate.

The personality changes were small at first. Chance stopped swishing his tail when I stroked him and began to show pleasure in being groomed. Instead of hiding out in a corner of the field, as close to the other horses as possible, he often lingered at my side while I worked in the pasture. And when the car pulled into the driveway, he’d whinny enthusiastically and run to the barn, bucking in glee. The look in his eye softened, too. Instead of anxious and contrary, the horse seemed to be making peace with the world.

Since meeting Chance I’ve thought a lot about rescue and horses. What it means and doesn’t mean. I’d like to say it was my horsemanship skill that reformed him, that I saw a spark of something when he was starving and ugly. But that wouldn’t be true.

I took him more out of guilt than out of sympathy, used time--not great skill--to train him, and focused on his flaws before finding his strengths. Frankly, I’ve owned easier, more talented, and better bred horses. But I’m not sure a horse has given me greater pleasure than this little pinto. He’s reminded me that, regardless of age and bad beginnings, an individual can start over.

As for the greater problem of horse welfare, there aren’t easy answers. Progress comes when individuals act, not when politicians pass a bill; when people focus on what they can do, not on what they can’t.

In the movie Seabiscuit, Charles Howard approaches Tom Smith and asks why he is saving the lame white horse. “Cause I can,” came the simple answer. “You don’t throw a whole life away just because it’s banged up a little.”

Thoughts worth pondering this season of second chances. 

About the Author
Catherine Madera is a freelance writer whose inspirational stories, articles, and profiles have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. A few include Chicken Soup for the Soul, Guideposts, Equus, Horse of Kings, and Arabian Horse Magazine. To contact Catherine visit www.catherinemadera.com or view her blog at www.thehorsebackwriter.blogspot.com.