Herd Bound

Rhonda and Sara
           Photo by Dory Touhey.

In July of 2012, I was captivated by a story on facebook about a herd of paints, mostly brood mares, who had been purchased by a kill buyer and needed re-homing fast.  Although, I tried to ignore the pleas from my friend who owned a Michigan horse rescue, something inside me would not allow it, and I launched myself head long into the cause.  The story struck a chord in me that was so deep that I was unable to stop following it and trying to help. The chronicles of the hopeless herd lead me on a journey that literally changed my life, and the way I will see horses forever. 

This story is dedicated to the 19 horses that were saved by many heroes, and especially to the beautiful souls in the world who have not been so fortunate.  You are loved. 

         by Rhonda Arza

Paint horses are mystical creatures who seem to embody ancient spirit, and each one has as much mystique as the divinely designed flawlessness in the markings that make them each so distinctive. I now own a Paint; she was one of a herd of nineteen others, mostly Paint brood mares like herself, that I played a part in rescuing one summer.  I witnessed proof of compassionate humanity existing among us as I felt the hearts of hundreds of friends viewing posts of pictures of the almost forgotten ill fated herd on Facebook. This group grew to become an unstoppable force of hopeful humanitarians that magically orchestrated a new and hopeful reality for these horses.

The herd, which had learned to move like an easy river over rock, and sludge, and any further difficult terrain put before them, was in trouble. There were nineteen horses all total, and each had been fattened up, and housed drug free for six months, the general waiting period needed for a kill buyer to ship them alive to Canada and then onward overseas to countries where eating horse meat was a popular delicacy enjoyed often by patrons of fancy European restaurants.

The herd’s original owner was a dying woman who was given an ultimatum by her husband. She had spent years laboriously developing this herd of beautiful breeding stock which she had enjoyed and loved like her very own children. They each had registration papers and pedigrees miles long that seemed to tell the story of a proud woman who could boastfully talk about the horses she owned and bred for pleasure. When she was weak and ailing, the resentment her husband felt from the time lost to her prized horses, coupled with the expense of taking care of an entire herd of horses, had overtaken him enough that he forced her to sell the last facade of joy in her life to a single buyer. Sadly, the rare buyer buys herds of beautiful horses, so they were sold to a horse dealer, a kill buyer we call them in the industry, who would prepare them to be sold for top dollar by the pound for overseas slaughter.

In our country, horses are a national treasure that have enriched our history so much that most of us can hardly even imagine the horrors that go on, and we often choose not to acknowledge these misfortunes as horses are shipped out of our country where they can be consumed in cultures that accept them as food. Sadly for this herd, the house of cards they had fallen victim to, had finally come down, and they were no longer safe from the harsh reality that life here can sometimes bring.

The herd knew nothing of their impending doom as they moved quietly through a simple life that had defined them for so long. They worked cooperatively as one pack and no horse among them was either the leader or the follower. They had learned to live together without competition, they were a team, and they had learned to move as one strong entity. They shared space, food, and water; they groomed each other, and slept outside together under trees or shelters that may or may not have been provided them by the humans who were to care for them. They had developed love and affection for one another over a lifetime of shared experiences, and each individual in no way felt that any of the others were separate from them. Bound for slaughter, though they had no way of knowing, they had formed a pact that together they were safe, but separate they were uncertain.

First Chance

The hired driver of the goose neck horse trailer pulled into the kill buyers’ driveway and loaded the first ones she could catch. She immediately took note as to how magnificent they were, and when she was handed the appropriate paperwork for slaughter bound horses, something in her drove her to plead with the kill buyer. Maybe it was the colorful herds’ uniqueness and oneness that had saved them, and somewhere buried just below the surface of the kill buyers own humanity was enough consideration to impel him to give her permission to sell them, if she did it quickly enough, and he received his money.

Facebook lit up as the message of desperation and hope was passed along from the shipper to her friend who runs a Michigan horse rescue who quickly moved and decided it was right, as animal rescuers know all too well, to get the word out about this herd and their dire story as this was their only and last hope.

I see countless horse’s faces every day on Facebook that need or are looking for homes, they all have a sad story in their eyes and it seems so hopeless. When the first post caught my eye, I admit that I glazed over it thinking that I would share it but it would end there. There are so many dismal pictures plastered over my wall of dogs, cats, horses, ferrets, and on and on and on, that I am overwhelmed by them all, thinking that I cannot possibly do anything to stop this madness of homeless animal after homeless animal. “Too many lost souls”, I thought with a head shake, but I passed the word along and hit the “share” button as I always do, and I felt at least for that moment, satisfied that I had done by part to help the herd. 

My friend who owns the rescue did not share my languid attitude at all and instead stressed the urgency of the looming situation at every turn and enough times that I could no longer ignore her pleas. “These horses have until Friday to live, and there are many more where these came from.” the post read. There was a photo of a beautiful bay gelding that caught my eye immediately. He was a thick and sturdy looking quarter horse, who somehow was thrown into the mix of breeding mares. 

“How on earth did this guy get here?” I thought as I looked at his picture, which showed his confident demeanor and strong stance, “He looks like a nice riding horse, not a brood mare.” I thought out loud.

As a riding instructor I was in need of a lesson horse perhaps, or even a horse I can lease out to one of my clients, so I inquired. When I spoke to the driver who discovered the herd she spoke with a strong voice that had heart and mileage behind it. She was a trainer too and she informed me that this horse was very sensitive to leg aids and probably could not have a beginner rider on him.

 I really appreciated her honesty, and thought that even though she only had a few days to home this group, she was not going to sell him to the wrong home. So he was not to be my horse, but now the seed was planted that I should continue the search for the right horse. I watched facebook all night after that and noticed that there were some takers on this first group. “If we get this first group homes,” my friend from the rescue posted, “We can get the next group homes and keep on going.”

     The first group of four was sold before the Friday deadline. It seemed like a miracle as we all held our breath, checking the daily reminders, and the comments from onlookers. There were plenty of “I wish I had more room”ers  and “I wish I had the money”ers, and an abundance of oohers and aahers, but the actual buyers, those willing to listen to instinct and intuition from just a cell phone picture, those were the people we needed to find, and the rescue farm owner knew that the only way this herd would survive was to share, share, and share some more.

         Round Two

The next group of four was picked up by Monday and we were off to the races yet again to find the next batch of would be owners for them. There was a handsome chestnut gelding in this bunch that interested me but he was described as too green for my needs, and the others were not exactly right either. One by one we shared and shared the pictures of the innocent faces of these kind horses, and had to watch with our breath held as the owner of the Michigan rescue stuck the neck of her rescue efforts out to save them, pleading with the Facebook community to share and repost so everyone could see them. She actually had people asking her why they weren’t free horses, questioning her integrity, and the integrity of the rescue, leading her to pose the question “What is a horse rescue?” and “Who qualifies as a recue horse?” 

I watched in anguish as she fought for her cause, but I knew sadly that my horse was not in this second group. Some of my fellow trainer friends were getting agitated on my shared posts saying things like, “Come on people! These horses deserve homes, they deserve a chance.” Someone even reminded us all that the famous Snowman was once a rescue horse and he was bought for $200 and went on to become one of the greatest show jumping legends of all time.

“One of these could be the next Snowman”, she pleaded, which lead one of our peers, a professional horseman within the hunter jumper community to step up and become a Facebook hero when he bought the chestnut gelding who had such an innocence about him that we could hardly stand waiting to see if he had to be shipped to a deadly fate. All four were sold by Friday and the kill buyer got his cash in hand late that afternoon. I heard a collective cheer seemingly through the vibration of my laptop on Facebook that night, and I cried for the horses that had no idea they were in danger, no idea that tonight they had been saved.

Round Three

Pleased with his fast money, he told the shipper to take the last group of horses in their entirety and sell them. She was given two weeks this time. When she arrived there, she put as many in her trailer as she could catch and made a few trips. She had to leave two behind because one was a stallion who was too wild and unruly to load into the trailer, and the other one was so lame and elderly that she could hardly stand up any longer.

Her heart was broken as she drove away unable to keep her promise to the herd. When she got the horses to her farm she tied them all to a hitching post to bathe them and assess the situation. Most of the horses were very rarely handled by people and were frightened. One horse was so afraid that she tried to break loose from the holding area and tragically slipped, fell, and broke her neck. The horse had to be destroyed the old fashioned way with a bullet at the scene with the whole herd looking on. The kill buyer insisted that the shipper pay for the dead horse, so money had to be added to the prices of the last group in order to make up for the one that had died.

It was to her the worst most heartless experience of her life, and although she was doing the best she could and felt called to do the work, she could not help but feel the enormity of the tragedy which had unfolded before her. Unfortunately, she was not a Facebook user, and she had no idea of the rally that was going on behalf of the herd.  She had no idea that people across nations were now rooting for them, and the driving force behind finding the members each homes had become virtually unstoppable.

The powerful determination of Facebookians far and wide would see nothing but a happy ending to this story. With the rescue owner at the helm of the motion to push through, the wall post read, “Slaughter Bound herd in Michigan in need of homes now!” We all shared, and shared again the message of impending doom each day, posting the album of the individual pictures of each horse like “wanted” signs all over our walls and the walls of our friends, and pretty soon we had roughly a thousand onlookers behind us.

Final Round

The final and largest batch was posted on a Friday. I remember getting very restless to see them and knowing that my horse was probably among this last group of horses. I recall checking my facebook page, my friends’ personal page, and her rescue’s page several times that day, and when the pictures finally came out I saw my Sara. She was called “Honey” because her papers said “Honey Dus Print”. I looked at her photo for a long, long time. People were making comments beside her picture saying things like, “This is my pick.” “Save this one for me.”, and, “This is my dream horse can I have her?”

I said nothing, made not one comment or even a “like”, as I did not want to bring any more attention to the photographs of the horse I knew would be my own. I remember calling my husband on the phone at work and asking him to look at her photo. “She’s nice.” he said with indifference behind his tone, quickly changing the subject.

Saturday and Sunday, I looked at the photo dozens of times, and looked deeply into the one showing eye of the horse I had already named Sara after my guardian angel. Her eyes had bold expression in them and though you could see the white, like so many paints, it was not a mistrusting eye that makes a person leery of a horse; it seemed more like an intelligent soulful eye that could see right through into your heart. Her eye was the type that could soften you, understand your fears, your pain, or anything that deep kind eye needed to teach you at the exact moment you needed to learn. That eye could demonstrate kindness, bring you warmth, and an eye like hers could even heal you. I saw in her something that I desired, and although initially I thought that I would be rescuing her, I also knew with great faith and clarity that she would come into my life to salvage me, to awaken me, to heal me, but most importantly to teach me.  On a soul level I knew that she was meant to be a part of my life, and that I had much to learn from her. 

 I could not stop thinking about her. “She is not a beginner horse you know.” my pragmatic husband said with a coolness in his voice. “If we are going to buy a horse Rhonda,” he said sensibly, “We really need a horse that is useful to us right away.” I stayed quiet because I knew he was not wrong about any of it, his reasons were realistic, and practical, but I couldn’t stop staring at her photograph. More and more comments were lining up underneath her photo as the hours went on.

“SLAUGHTER BOUND HERD IN DANGER AND IN NO WAY SAFE!!!” The haunting description read, “We have only two weeks to sell the rest of them or they WILL get shipped.” The photo share caption threatened and I shuddered to imagine that beautiful, perfect mare on a trailer heading to a holding pen, and eventually on to an airplane, and then perhaps countless more frightening holding pens preparing her for a devastating fate. It was not her actual death that I thought about, but it was her journey toward a slaughter death which concerned me the most, and I thought about the immeasurable number of other beautiful horses who never even get the chance to be seen on facebook, who must face such a journey. 

I stared at her photograph all night until it seemed that I knew her. The vibrant colors on her sides seemed to blend now, morphing into one large painting of another perfect horse losing hope.

No one had taken any of them in yet and it was Monday morning. “Two weeks from last Friday comes so fast.” I thought out loud. “Someone else would have bought her already if she was not meant to be ours.” I convinced myself. I was folding laundry and feeling so anxious about her and in a moment of hopeful panic I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the shipper who had stumbled upon the ill fated herd. I felt I could trust her because she had been so very forthright with me when I called about the bay gelding from the first group.

If she hadn’t have answered the phone I would have questioned myself and might not have attempted another call. She told me that she had never seen such a horrible scene, and that she would never do anything like this again, as she was affected so profoundly that she would never be the same. I remember thinking with great clarity and conviction that she was being utilized as an angel, and how through the wreckage and the heartache she could not see this yet.  I felt a deep sense of peace within me, knowing that all of us were being asked to do the same thing, and that we were each being utilized in the same way.  

I remember trying to comfort her in vane as she shared with me the story about the dying woman who had owned this herd, and how she could never forgive herself if she didn’t see this herd through, and finally she told me quietly about the two whom she had to leave behind. Tears streamed down my face as I listened and empathically felt her pain, noticing the words weakening as they came from her once strong voice which now cracked as she spoke to me.

My reply felt cold but I was honest. “I don’t think I can do it because she is not exactly what we need.” Then with a softening voice I told the truth, “There is something about her picture that I just can’t shake.” I spoke with hope in my voice, “I promise you,” I said with sincerity, “I will call my husband and call you right back if I can take her.” As I hung up the phone, I was confident that she would never expect a call back from me, and I also knew for certain that I had only a moment to get my husband.

I contemplated the uncertainty of his answer and knew that I had to be careful. But I also knew that my husband understands how fate and intuition play a large role in our lives way more than I ever give him credit for, so I spoke from my heart. I spoke of my experience on the phone with the woman and told him the story she had shared with me. He was quiet but he knew that we had to do what was right by this mare. He too had gone back to her picture several times, though he had been much more discreet about it. “Let’s get her.” He said in a calm strong voice.  I sat stunned for a moment, “Go ahead and call her back.” He repeated, noting my breathless silence. 

I am not sure if I even said goodbye to him, but I do remember that I couldn’t hang up the phone and redial fast enough. My hand fumbled recklessly on the keys once or twice.  I then had to concentrate and redial the number more slowly as I was not going to make an untimely mistake in dialing it again when I had only moments to spare.

I anxiously asked how to pay for her.  I could feel my heart beating strongly against my chest as I momentarily assessed the impulsivity of the act I was about to embark on. Nevertheless, when she sent me to her PayPal account, I spared not even a minute before making the transfer, and within moments she was ours.

I pensively sat on the bed where I had made the calls, sitting precisely where I had spent hours looking at her photo and the photo of the herd together so many times, and recognized that I had just made a profound and significant decision for all of us. Chills blew through me as I connected gratefully with the guidance that I had listened to, and I knew, without any evidence of remorse, that I had done the right thing and that Sara, a soul that I had perhaps known forever, was coming home.

Sara. Photo by Dory Touhey

I proudly posted a comment under the beautiful photo showing our Honey, my Sara, declaring that she was sold and confirming to all of the onlookers that we had bought her. A sudden and immediate barrage of posts flooded the photograph. There were now 30 or 40 comments underneath her picture congratulating me on our new horse. I felt completely uncertain of what journey lay before me, but I knew one thing, at that instant I knew that I could breathe again because she was safe. I had never felt so much relief, and now I could wait for her safe arrival, and deal with the next chapter of our journey as it came, knowing with great faith that I had listened to the right voice this time. I was now able to continue to help find homes for the others, as I was able to begin to lead by example. 

         All of the horses found homes and followed suit after Sara was sold. No horse that was taken to the shelter of the kind shippers’ barn would have to endure a grueling slaughter journey. The final horse that remained from the herd did not find a home within the strict time frame. She was an older mare who was plainer looking than the others, but she was easy going and kind. An anonymous donor from our group of faithful Facebook friends, found it in their heart to pay for the last and final horse so that the shipper could put the payments behind her, on time, and begin to heal herself as she now had the occasion to find the perfect home for this final mare, which she did just a couple of weeks after the deadline.

The more time I spend learning from Sara, the more that I appreciate how the herd acted as one. I think about the parallels of the work we all did together that was much like the work of the herd, and how really simple our place and purpose is as individuals. We are here to learn that we are all more the same than we are different; That when the universe asks us to step up, we can either choose to disregard the call, or we can become a powerful force that rallies around each other sharing the simple message before us, because after all we do recognize the idea that as one we are just one, but as a working herd we are the sum of our whole.

Together, we witnessed all of the posting and sharing that began with one and multiplied into a flock of many who had just one goal in mind. The goal, though it seemed to be as simple as the saving of some horses, was about the humanity that binds us together and the hope of people who proudly want to proclaim that love always wins. The herd was nothing but a reminder of the lesson, and living with the blessing that is Sara in my everyday life, I am reminded of the power of all of us together for one purpose, as we are as strong or as weak as the herd that was built out of a dream of one, which went on to become a vision of hope for so many.

When we glance back at the tragedy of the misbegotten herd, separated but bound as a whole, living forever within each of us who were lucky enough to be touched by this story that we all chose generously and collectively to share, we can hear a quiet undertone that reminds each of us that wherever we look, we will always find love seamlessly within one great herd moving together steadily throughout our lives.

The Teacher's Teacher

Photo: Dory Touhey

"The Teacher's Teacher" is about a great pony that I was lucky enough to be in a partnership with, while it's mostly about the journey of the horse, and our misconception of our true place in their lives.

By Rhonda Hoskins Arza

           This past fall, while searching for a book in my son Ryan’s bedroom, I found a stall plate with the name of our old pony “Church Mouse”. As I contemplated the sweetness of her perfect name with waterlogged eyes, I must have winced because Ryan heard me from his study, and asked immediately, loudly calling, "Mom are you okay?"

"Yes I'm fine honey. I just found Daphne's nameplate in your room, and I got a little sad that's all."

Daphne aka Church Mouse

Then he asked the hard question, “Mom, do you even know where she is anymore?" The truth was I was unsure. I had given her to a dear family friend some years ago, who used her in her school program for a few years after we sold our farm, and I had been told that she had found her a great retirement home with a family in Barrington who had young grand kids who enjoyed riding her around from time to time, but I had not heard anything about her for years, and I started to feel guilty for losing track, for not asking about her occasionally, and mostly I felt at fault for not thinking about her enough anymore.  Even though I was certain that Daphne was always in the best of hands, and had been cared for and loved every day since she left my world, I was certain that she must have died by then, she had to be at least thirty five years old or more, and not knowing definitively made the guilt transparent. I prayed for forgiveness not only for losing track of Daphne, but for losing track of most of them.

After being a part of the horse industry for more than thirty seven years, it is difficult to count all of the horses and ponies who have come in and out of my life, horses who I have loved and cherished. Reflecting on the life span of a horse, and how many different experiences each horse must embrace is complicated for most of us.  If they had tough times we really do not want to know, as falsehearted as this not knowing may feel for us.  As trainers and as horse owners, we can only ask ourselves to love them while they are with us, because sometimes without notice they move on, and many of us are overcome with the weight of a self-imposed responsibility to see the horses owned by us, and even those owned by others, through during their lives. It seems unreasonable to put such burden on ourselves as trainers, as we work within a transient sport, filled with horses and owners who move from one place to the next, and then on to the next again.  Though in some way we feel a troubling heaviness, and we carry this guilt for years like baggage whose weight can only be eased if we can find them again.  

 It was overwhelming to find that name plate, and as I sat on Ryan’s bed, and held it up to the light coming in from his bedroom window, I asked for forgiveness from her. Forgiveness for not keeping up with her, for seemingly not caring about her anymore, and most of all I needed understanding for forgetting what she had done for me, and for only just now realizing the magnitude of her significance throughout my career as a teacher of this magnificent sport that I owed so much to, as I sat there and recognized her reflection through the memories of her life with me; All that she had taught me, all that she had prepared me for, I could now see her lessons so vividly laid out before me.

In my asking, a merciful and miraculous answer came almost instantly, as if within the complexity of the question of where she was, held the simplicity of the answer. That same afternoon, during my daily routine of working on school stuff with Ryan, and completing mundane household chores, my husband Rene sent me a text message that read, "Check your email :)".  The incredulous thing was that I hadn't spoken to him at all yet that day, so he could not have known that I had found the name plate, and especially how finding it had affected me so deeply, because even I was surprised by my visceral reaction followed by an entire afternoon of beating myself up.

In my inbox I found a forward sent by our family friend who had taken Daphne for us all of those years ago that read, "Guess who this is?", and when I opened it there was a photograph of our beautiful Daphne taken just days earlier. Though her coat was long and had dulled, her chestnut roan color showed itself quite prominently, and I could see that she had aged ever so gracefully, and that she still had her adorable round bulging goldfish shaped eyes that now made her look like a kind and wise grandmotherly pony mare. Her beautiful flaxen mane that was her trademark had grown long and now looked like stringy human blonde locks. She had a small child sitting upon her bareback with a halter and lead rope, and she was surrounded by a charming backdrop of a white barn with lovely white fencing.

Church Mouse with Dana Villanueva in 1995.

Irony didn’t begin to explain the velocity of the answer to my question; the only explanation was of course the simplest most blessed one. What I hadn't considered in the present however, I surely have considered in retrospect with seamless clarity. Daphne came into my life undoubtedly to teach the teacher. In my twenty four years as a riding instructor, there has been no horse or pony that stands out to me as my teacher more than she does. Somehow, she knew exactly how to communicate with me as I taught lessons with her, and my job was as simple as taking each prompt from her as she guided me.  It was an astounding experience, and I am certain that without her observable ability to show me the way, I would not be able to read the more subtle cues that other horses use to help me teach their riders today. Given that Daphne had such a strong will, there was no way around working from within her perspective, and there was no avoiding learning to teach by listening to her strong wisdom and guidance.

Although she was already a late teenager when I purchased her as my first very own lesson pony from a good friend and colleague who knew she would be perfect for me, Daphne had the unique range to teach many levels of riders. She was able to teach first time riders of four or five years old, as well as teaching more seasoned kids who rode in short stirrup to 2’6”, and she had taken many kids all the way up to the large pony division long before I had her. She really was an instructor’s dream pony.  She knew when it was time for her to give them confidence, and she understood exactly when it was time for them to learn to ride. She understood the unique needs of each rider’s level, and through her lifetime of experience as a teaching pony, she effortlessly exhibited to me how to ready each of them for the next step in their riding education.

I am a huge advocate of starting new riders on the lunge line. It gives the student time to learn so many important basic skills on horseback, and it also gives them time to develop a trusting relationship of the partnership of three that goes on in learning to ride. There is a horse, a rider, and myself, and the three of us together have to trust each other fully. I love the lunge line also because it is like a life preserver for a new rider, and when the time is right to let it go, it is such a great feeling of accomplishment for all of us. Daphne however, hated the lunge line. She would do it begrudgingly, but she would only go one direction, and she held her ears back the entire time, often crinkling her nose and shaking her head up and down in disgust towards me, especially when I would urge her to pick up a trot, or to increase her speed.

One week she and I had many brand new beginner lessons coming in seemingly all at once. She and I had to teach two or three thirty minute lunge line lessons a day, and she was finished with it. I remember lifting a tiny little girl by the leg to wheel her up on the pony's back. Daphne made no move, and she stood perfectly still as she always did, but when I went to clip the lunge line onto her bit she rounded her back ever so slightly, and she squealed just a little as if to threaten me. I swear I could hear her speaking loud and clear, "If you lunge me one more time lady, this kid won't live to tell the story of her first pony ride."

I paused for a moment, and I contemplated the consequences of what I was about to try, verses the cost of asking Daphne to teach one more lunge line lesson. I seriously considered the child's inability to steer, or to stop, or to get her to go, or to communicate in any way with this pony mare of great opinion. I walked alongside the pony with the child for a long while, instructing her from the mental cassette recorder playing “Beginner Lesson #1” aloud from within my head, while I was actually really considering how I was going to get Daphne to agree to the lunge line again.  While I jogged along side of them for a bit I felt the moment was right to say to her out loud, "Okay Daphne, I trust you."

I carefully and slowly backed towards the center of the arena, leaving the pony and this little baby out on the rail together. I remember the rider’s reins were miles long, her feet were dangerously home in the stirrups, her heels up, knees gripping.  Her leg, which barely reached the bottom of the flaps of the saddle, was flailing behind her, and as I gently redirected the child's position with my watchful words, I looked on in amazement as Daphne dropped her head low, took a deep breath of freedom and relaxation from the confinement of what was to her that horrible lunge line, and she walked ever so quietly as she awaited my next instruction aimed towards her. She treated the entire arena as one great big lunge line, and instead of a rope tied to her she listened for my words, watched my body language, and I watched in bewilderment as she continually assessed the ability level and the balance of her rider. "Trot Daphne", I cautiously instructed.

She gazed back at me with those noble bulging eyes, and I clearly heard her speak to me once again and she said ever so clearly, “You teach the riding, I’ll give the lessons”.

Then she picked up the slowest most careful shuffling slow jog I had ever seen, and as I repeated, "Up down" again and again to my rider, she stayed within the exact rhythm of my voice, and clung closely to the groove made by the others who had trotted before her on the rail. I rejoiced in my mind thinking of the freedom of trusting her with the tiniest of souls on horseback, and then I noticed an even more extraordinary thing, I noticed that with each lap after she rounded the corner and was on the long side she would prick her ears forward and physically turn her head towards the inside, and look right at me. When she did this I would point my finger towards her and say, “Not yet Daphne”, and she would then allow her ears to fall into the position where she could best listen to her rider.  When it was time to come in, I would simply crumple a candy mint wrapper in my fingers, and in she would jog, stopping to walk just short of me. Daphne and I taught beginner riders together like this for many years, she and I shed our lunge line, and because I recognized the moment when the teacher needed to listen, to trust her, and to honor her needs, our partnership continually grew.

With all of the appeal of her ability to be good with baby riders, she was a pony mare after all, and she knew how and when to teach children the dangers of horses and horseback riding. She was quiet and sensitive with new riders, but older more seasoned kids were constantly being hardened and tested by Daphne. She had developed a rock hard mouth from all of the rough hands throughout the years of being a lesson pony, and there was no amount of pulling or leverage that could stop her if she made up her mind to go. A beginner rider could learn how to canter on her because she had a perfect tranter, she could four beat perfectly, cantering in front but somehow trotting behind.  But if a rider kicked her too hard to try to make her go faster, she was virtually impossible to stop. I could generally coax her into the center with my candy wrapper, but one day she went straight for a 3'0 ramped oxer backwards, jumped it, and then came running over to me. Luckily the small child riding her, who had never jumped, had been taught her two point well enough that she automatically found her jumping position, and actually made it look planned.

Daphne also had to be ridden only in enclosed arenas. She was known to pull a few riders over her head if she could get to the nearest grassy area, and she even took a few riders back to the barn, and into the aisle way narrowly avoiding the crossties. One year she was showing in short stirrup with a very good riding child with a lot of experience. The rider had just finished her winning round, as Daphne rarely made a mistake in the show ring, and Daphne was exiting the arena at a very forward walk. I reached out to grab the reins to stop her for our post round conversation, but they slipped quickly past me. I called to the student to turn her around, but Daphne had already picked up a trot. She began heading down the steep hill towards the barns, and then she began to canter. The child's mom began to run after her, I grabbed my golf cart, and we started down the hill but we had lost sight of them completely. We started searching the stabling areas but still didn't find the runaway pony until we spotted the two of them walking along the road coming back towards us, kid dismounted, pony in tow. “What happened?” I inquired, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, rather calmly for a child who had just been run away with, “Some man reached out and stopped her down by the barns.” Neither one seemed phased, unbelievably. I always made sure Daphne was properly escorted out of the show ring after that day, and that tough little kid, not surprisingly, now rides as a professional.

Daphne also had a great sense of when it was time for a child to graduate to a new pony. She would decide without notice, but I always knew when they were getting close because she would challenge them in new ways, she would first look within her bag of usual tricks, and when those no longer worked, she would simply buck them off. That was my clue that it was in fact their final ride on Daphne, and they were ready for the next step.   

Daphne composed brilliant schemes to teach children both leadership, and how to always pay attention to their mounts body language. I asked two of my young riders to bathe Daphne after their lesson. I was in my loft office when I heard blood curdling screams from the barn aisle below. I ran down the stairs as quickly as I could, and I found the girls standing outside her open stall door. One had a lead rope, and the other was just standing there shaking in her paddock boots. "What on earth happened?" I asked curtly, noticing Daphne inside her stall munching quietly and innocently on her hay.

"She won't let us go in and get her." the teary eyed one explained.

"That's ridiculous," I said sounding more irritated, "Just walk in there and grab her by the halter."

I stood and watched as the braver one with the lead rope tentatively went back in to try one more time. She gingerly walked towards the pony and sure enough, with teeth bearing, Daphne charged at her like a rabid dog. "Daphne,” I yelled walking past the two kids, marching straight into her stall, "That is terrible behavior!", and I grabbed her halter and put her lead rope on, and lead her out. I worked with the girls for a long time, we spoke about leadership, and I told them to march in there with authority, and not to make eye contact when they went in her stall, because if she got them to look at her with just a little bit of fear in their eyes, she knew she could lunge towards them to get them back out again. I had them each go in and get her fifteen times, and when I was certain the girls were leaders and no longer followers, at least for that day, I left the kids to take her for her bath.

They had each given enough supervised baths, so I was confident that if one held her in the outdoor wash rack and the other one used the hose, they would have no problems. Daphne always enjoyed her baths without incident, but what I hadn't considered was how smart Daphne was, and how much she was enjoying toying with these kids. Once again, I heard the same outlandish screams from the girls, and I stood in amazement at what I found. Daphne was standing with her right front hoof on the toes of the girl with the running hose, and her left front hoof was standing on the toes of the girl with the lead rope. She was actually holding them there, so neither one could move.

Luckily, the kids were okay, and thankfully they were both laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  She taught them a lot that day.  She taught us all a lot every day.  I owned Daphne a total of ten years, and as hard as it was to let her go, when the time came, I knew that her place was no longer with me, and that she had many useful years left as a lesson pony to teach other children, and other young instructors how to understand and listen to the language of each horse.

The day that I found the nameplate, and received the photo I cried for so many reasons as I stared at her now older and weathered frame, and saw the same gift of a deep dimpled smile on the face of this child that I had seen Daphne give to so many other little girls throughout her years with us. I thought about how blessed I was to receive my answer, and that perhaps it was my moment to understand that my responsibility with the horses lies within the present, not within their past or their future. I can only do what I do when I am with them, and if I am lucky enough to be there when the horse is passed along, I can rest knowing that I have helped them make their next best move. 

“Daphne” pictured here in 1998 with
Rene and I with our one-year-old son Ryan.

I contemplated the philosophy that like us, perhaps each horse has their own predetermined journey, and because free will is not a choice among domestic animals living in a human world, their only purpose lies within the lessons they are sent here to teach each of us, lessons that are perhaps predestined long before they are born. They have many lives to touch, and much to do, and even if their journey is an often difficult one, it is our sole duty to do our best to help them through if we are able, but moreover to learn the lessons they bring to each of us along the way. If during their passage I can be a soft place to land for a time, then I can accept that, and hope that I learned the lessons which they each brought for me, and that it is enough to send them off to complete their mission here, and to also send with them hope that others won't miss the opportunity they are being given to learn from these vast souls who have much to teach.

I mercifully received the message a few days ago, that after a well lived life full of love, and a blessed lifetime of devoted owners, Daphne completed her teaching assignment here.  She left us better listeners, better teachers, better horseman, and great leaders, but especially she made us better people for having learned so much from her, as she was called to move on to do her teaching now as a reflection from heaven, a much gentler place from which to send us her messages, her final and perfect home.