Little Black Mare
I only ever remember being good with animals. That doesn’t
necessarily mean I always was, especially since I have a pretty terrible memory
and basically forgot most of my childhood. For all I know, I could have
terrorized them from an early age. But my family and friends assure me that
animals have always been comfortable in my presence, and vice versa. So no one
was surprised when I eventually ended up in a career rescuing them.
I have one of those jobs that almost universally elicits the
“I don’t know how you do it” response. The “how do you not adopt all the
puppies” spiel. The “I could never do what you do, I’d cry too much” nonsense.
Please do not mistake me—I have cried. A lot. But if I broke down every time I
saw a broken down animal, I would have run out of tears a long time ago.
Rather, I put a piece of every single animal into my heart and let them fortify
my resolve to keep working on their behalf.
Sometimes, though, they get to you and there’s no way to
stop them. They find a fissure in your aortic wall and wiggle their way through
and absolutely transform you in the process. When I first began my foray into
the world of animal welfare, I worked as a consultant for the ASPCA’s Field
Investigations and Response team. That means that whenever there was an
animal-related disaster—natural or manmade—we were deployed to aid in the
removal and sheltering of the afflicted animals.
In spring of 2011 the Mississippi jumped her banks and
devastated many of the cities in her path. We set up a temporary shelter to
house the pets of families who had been displaced and had nowhere to keep their
beloved animals. These were pets with owners who cared about them, they were
not mistreated or neglected and, for the most part, they were in good shape. I
was assigned to the care of the few horses (and one goat) whose owners had
nowhere to keep them. When I wasn’t mucking and feeding the horses, I helped
out with the other animals.
There was one dog, an elderly shepherd mix, who was friendly
and happy as can be, albeit old and arthritic. Her owners left her a special
diet and explicit instructions for her care. They obviously loved her very much
and hated that she couldn’t stay with them. We took turns walking the dogs,
giving them a chance to sniff and stretch and just be dogs when everything else
felt out of whack. On this particular day, I took the old girl out for a
leisurely walk, and in the midst of our stroll she began to die.
It was not calm or peaceful. She was in organ failure,
coughing up blood and struggling to breathe. It happened so suddenly and
without warning. I followed protocol, summoned the on-site veterinarians, and
stood back, hugging myself and pacing awkwardly. They made her comfortable,
called her owners, and encouraged me to say goodbye and then find something
else to occupy myself while they waited for permission to end her suffering.
I tried to stay calm. This was my job, after all. But I was
embarrassed by how upset I got so I stole away to the temporary paddocks and
slid under the fence to hide among the horses. My favorite mare, a gorgeous
little black horse who came to the shelter with her foal, pushed through the
others and made her way to my side. She sniffed me, nudged me a few times, and
then quietly and gently placed her forehead right in the middle of my chest. It
was the closest to any other living creature I had ever felt and will likely
ever feel. The floodgates opened and I doubled over, racked with sobs.
The nameless mare, a long-abandoned stray that someone had
taken to feeding with their own horses, took one step forward, rested her nose
on my shoulder, and did not move a muscle, save to scold the other horses for
getting too close. There she stood—stock still—for a solid ten minutes while I
mourned the sweet old shepherd mix who had faded in front of my eyes.
As I spent my tears, my agony began to mix with a sense of
wonder that this horse, a creature I had known only a few days, could be so
connected with me and know exactly what I needed from her in that space.
Gradually my anguish was replaced by an awed sort of joy that I had experienced
such a profound, almost supernatural moment with her. I actually began to
laugh. My heart which, just beats before, had felt as though it might split in
two, soon felt light and almost whole again.
That feeling of completeness, connection and power is what
keeps me going even when it all feels like too much. When I think about the
little black horse who felt my pain and allowed me to express it free from
judgement and shame, I am reminded why I love what I do and why I will never,
ever stop. Even when I, myself, don’t know how I can do it.