Stella really did not want to be touched. I didn’t blame her a bit and frankly understood her body language well enough to know that there was good reason for turning away from my gentle, outstretched hand. On rare occasions, she tolerated my palm between her brow, but would recoil suddenly and either retreat from my light contact or flash her ears in a silent warning. For her own protection and for the protection of her unborn foal, she wore a breakaway halter and catch rope. I wanted to make sure that we could safely lead her out to her enrichment, and of course, help her in spite of herself should she need assistance when foaling.I dedicated a bit of time to blending into her environment every evening at the end of night rounds. I became aware of her watching me as I gave my final treats, pats, and in a few cases, flakes of hay. She began to wait by her stall gate and anticipate a final feeding, which nourished her growing baby and manifested in her bag, which grew heavy signaling that her foal was coming. The weanlings next door helped a bit, as they loudly greeted me expecting the cookie that rewarded them for allowing me to scratch their necks and lightly rub their ears. Gigi and Sparrow had recently shed their labels of “feral” and embraced our touch, kindness, and consistent schedule of positive reinforcement. While Stella was not so quick to forgive mankind the sins of the past, she began to impatiently await my approach to her stall, and alas, finally began to nicker when she heard my footsteps.The days that preceded the birth were, of course, sleepless. Thankfully Karen and Kyle had connected the “maternity ward” camera, and I was able to check my iPad every hour or so, as not to unnecessarily disturb or disrupt our still suspicious mother-to-be. After three nights completely absent of anything remotely resembling REM sleep, Stella alerted me to the birth of her foal even before my muffled alarm rang. The birth was perhaps the quickest that I have ever been honored to witness. The tiny little doe-like hooves and the bittiest wee nose with a sassy snip not unlike her mama’s greeted me first. The rest of the birth was a breeze, and our newest little life saved was up and nursing within the hour. Trese (pronounced Tresa) named after our veterinarian, friend and benevolent supporter, Dr. Dave Treser, boldly claimed her life with an innocence that made my chest and throat burn.The next few days of course were dusted with the celebration of the delight of a new life. Perhaps for me, it was the magical gift of giving Stella’s foal back to her. Rather than the horror of Stella’s past and the brutality and injustice of what almost was, I silently wept watching Stella nurse, nuzzle, and gently nibble her healthy, perfect, bold little baby daughter. Last night, as is my final evening custom of the day, I sat in Stella’s doorway and as she ate mouthfuls of fresh hay, I gently rubbed every inch of her filly’s delicate legs, tummy and neck. In between humming a slightly off-key version of the birthday song, I told Stella what a good horse she was and what a truly wonderful mother, and how grateful I was to have her here. After a bit of time she cocked an ear at me; respecting her almost silent language, I quietly climbed to my feet and closed the stall door. In my reflection, Red Bucket is not only a place of saving lives, but one of deeply respecting the many facets of the life and dignity of these marvelous horses that we fight to protect. Happy Birthday Trese…and Happy Birthday to Stella.