Those of us who have committed ourselves to the world of rescue are reminded with too great a frequency that a culture exists that does not believe horses can think or feel. The exhaust from this belief system results in the victimized, shattered, often starving and always damaged horses who find their way to the safety of Red Bucket and the promise of a second chance. In our efforts to provide care and repair, we have been deeply touched by grateful and knowing horses who demonstrate intelligence, empathy, and personality traits that are more colorful and varied than a trip to the ice cream parlor. In pondering the limited mindset of those who neither know horses nor understand their tremendous character and ability to partner with humankind, I am reminded of the great Hickstead. Hickstead was one of the greatest show jumpers of his day, a successful Canadian Olympian, known for his fiery and active competitiveness in the show ring and his brilliant relationship with his rider both in and out of the arena. In 2011, after a nearly flawless round of Grand Prix show jumping, Hickstead crumbled with his long-term rider on his back. The amazing Hickstead intentionally collapsed in such a way as to ensure that his rider…partner…friend was safe. The last thing that Hickstead did, prior to his death, was to look over his shoulder to make sure that his rider was okay. Yes, those of us who know horses know that they are fully capable of thinking, feeling, and loving us in return.

I stood watching one of the great loves of my life enjoy his turnout. Paidraig, acutely aware that my eyes were on him, was partially flirting, but mostly trying to seduce me into playing a game. He is, at best, a rascal, definitely playful, if not a bit naughty, and very intelligent. It had been a long few days, with far too many hours behind either a desk or the wheel of my car, which equated to not nearly enough horse time. I decided to draw out my evening by picking out Paidraig’s stall and replacing a bit of bedding. Paidraig supervised my every move, trotting after me down the fence line trying to grab my shirt, jumping the barrel that he had tipped on its side, and galloping up to the fence, only to slide on the brakes, spraying me with sand. He relished in my chiding comments and gentle, scolding words, as always getting energy from the attention, especially any reaction on my part resulting from his naughtiness. I jogged back and forth from his stall to the manure pile with him “racing” me the entire time. I am not sure which of us was enjoying the game more, but after the fourth trip, it was pretty clear who was in better shape. Huffing a bit, I r!etreated to his stall to spread the fresh pile of shavings.

He followed me, hugging the fence line that paralleled his paddock, clearly not ready to break the cadence of our play. In his signature move of pawing for attention, he struck the tree in front of his stall with the Richter Scale force of a 5.0 earthquake. I knew instantly that there was a problem, and with more luck than athleticism, quickly slid between the bars of the fence. His front right hoof was elevated, stretched above the base of the tree. The chicken wire protecting the tree had become enmeshed under his shoe. He must have pulled back a bit before I reached him, as the wire was knotted, tight and unyielding. With his foreleg stretched in an awkward angle, and with me calmly soothing him with a gentle but authoritative repetition of “whoa,” I supported his outstretched leg while attempting to free his hoof. With both of my hands occupied, I could not reach my blue tooth which was buried in my pocket. While trying to keep calm, I called out for help while Paidraig took advantage of my compromised position, first by tossing my ball cap off of my head and then by pulling my pony tail holder out, and playing with and nuzzling my hair which was almost completely obscuring my vision. I continued to fumble and vainly tried to free him from the wire with mounting anxiety as his leg became heavier and he no longer thought it to be a game. A full 15 minutes passed as I continued to alternate between telling him whoa, and crying out for help.

Karen rounded the corner of the winter barn and heard my urgent pleas to bring wire cutters fast. Paidraig was now growing impatient and starting to rock back on his hindquarters. I had, out of necessity, rotated underneath him, partly to help position his foot for Karen to cut through the mangled wire, and partly to support my aching and trembling forearms which threatened to betray me at any moment. Lauren, seeing us struggle, sprinted across the arena to stand at his halter-less head and calm him. The snap of the final wire sent me under his heavy feet. I braced myself for what I knew would be the unavoidable crush of hooves, only to be surprised by what Lauren later called a pirouette. As the wire snapped and Paidraig’s huge body crashed like an out-of-control wave, he sucked up his body and with silent grace rotated in a 180 degree arc, landing weightlessly in the deep sand 10 feet from where I lay. His feet landed so carefully, not a piece of sand appeared disturbed. He stood there motionless, with his eyes on me, still halter-less, while Karen and Lauren cut the remaining wire away from his shoe.

With shaking arms I fetched his halter and then fastened it in place; still trembling, I led him through the gate. The magical moment was shattered by the return of the ever naughty one who pulled me nearly off my feet as he dove head first into a hedge to gobble up mouthfuls of what had previously been landscaping. He continued in his roguish way to challenge both Legacy and Cooper on his way back to his stall, arching his thick neck and strutting more than prancing, creating dust and considerable upset along the way. Once back in his stall, again playing with my hair as I bent to remove his polo wraps, he pulled me into the nook of his neck only long enough for me to fill my lungs with the smell of him, and my heart with a feeling that is best defined as reciprocal love. In rescuing, I am rescued.

This month’s culture message is dedicated to my great love, friend and partner, Paidraig, and of course, Hickstead.