To say that he was living in squalor would be an understatement. I wouldn’t call it living, and

after 6 months, I couldn’t say that he was surviving. The prison that held him against his will was

also that which was slowly robbing him of the same. The stall had not been cleaned in as many

months as he had inhabited it. The urine and erosion had created a crater in the middle that left

him only the thin ledge around the stall which created a rim, and the only place in which to

stand; lying down was not an option. His grey hide was stretched taught across his prominent

skeleton, and his hip bone had pierced a hole through the fragile skin. His pallor was that of a

slow and exhausting disease, and his eye was flat and barren. He existed in a bleak graveyard of

what happens to life after despair has faded and right before death has claimed the final prize.

Someone from my past reached out…it was a completely unexpected call, one that made me cry.

She was one of the very few that I really admired…a true horsewoman. Not so much because she

was a remarkable rider, but because she was a remarkable owner. I had not seen her in a good

number of years, and yet I had a tapestry of memories of her, hand-walking her horse after the

rain…not the perfunctory, “check-it-off-the-list” kind of walk, but the kind of walk that allowed

the kinks to shake out of the body and time to reset the mind, the kind of walk that was in-themoment

and relationship building. I can remember the many times that I would see her out of my

peripheral vision doing “carrot stretches” to lengthen and gently stretch his neck, of being with

him in the cross ties that we shared, grooming him, touching him, caring for him not from her

head…but from her heart. Many little, yet consistent moments that created a love and a life for

both she and her horse.

Her world had changed…the passages of life had evoked a new reality that no longer allowed her

to spend the hours at the barn that he deserved. Selling him was too impersonal and created an

uncertainty that she could not accept. The painful and selfless call came because she had also

been watching us those many years. Her decision was not to sell, or settle, but to trust us to find

the next chapter and the new family that would harbor a promise, a match, and a contract.

He arrived with the confidence of a lucky horse who had already lived a lifetime of love. Unlike

so many of the horses who come to us for help, he knew what a cookie was, had personal

expectations about grooming standards, and seemed to understand that his time with us would be

brief. He did not need to be here and was delightfully bold in getting his needs met. He also (not

a bit by accident) met Nicole. He was right off of the list of the mutual perfect match…from the

trail riding/dressage preference to the outwardly nosy personality of a horse who knew what

family life was really meant to be. He even seemed amused by Nicole’s small children, not a bit

jealous, but willing to gently nuzzle in for his share of attention and affection. As matches go,

Nicole was the side of what otherwise might have been a complex equation, living in her new

dream of a home with a bit of land and a little barn. The barn is not empty; it houses Nicole’s 26-

year-old childhood horse, Angel, who will be joined tomorrow by a new family member, who

will become Nicole’s children’s family horse. I imagine, knowing the full story, that I might cry

again, as I help facilitate a dream for Nicole and a good night’s sleep for my friend who has said

a final good-bye.

My phone rang with yet another call from the past. It had been four years, and with our blessing

she had moved him out of state. Of course we had kept in touch…but the call validated and

celebrated the every tear, every triumph, and of course, every horse. Her “boy”, I was told, was

fabulous; she claims that he is so magnificent that I would not recognize him. She boasted of his

coat, the muscles that come only from many months of conditioning and years of nutrition, of his

show record and judges’ scores, the compliments, the awards and ribbons. She spoke at great

length about his ground manners, and of course what was much more important to me…her deep

love and commitment to him. She repeated that I would not know him if I saw him. Of course,

that is where she is wrong. Underneath his gleaming show coat is a scar that still haunts my

sleepless nights. His slow and painful fight to reclaim his life and the two-year uphill battle to

reprogram darkness to light has left him seared into my DNA. I hold his chin in my hands on the

cover of our brochure, and Michelle holds his heart…and he, hers. Caspian is moving back to

California, and Michelle has asked if I will go to their first show. She tells me that I will not

recognize him, but I know that I will.