There is a magical hour at Red Bucket that few know about. It is my special time to be gently flooded with gratitude and reminded about the significance of our work. The filter is both subtle and powerful at the same time and has the effect of a relentless vice that, while not quite painful, provides a steady and unyielding pressure of moving forward, not stopping, and not resting. The message is clear, I cannot…we can never stop. The reminder has a poignancy that I force myself to acknowledge, absorb and feel. In my secret time, I allow a softness to encapsulate my chest which for that short period every night expands to the point of stretching my ribcage and straining my intercostal muscles beyond their normal capacity. Shortly after the last evening buckets are delivered and the last dedicated volunteer passes through the wrought iron gate, and the heaviness of the padlock and chain secures our horses’ home, a lightness and peace settles upon our precious charges like a loving security blanket.

In the background, my dogs race around the orchard enjoying their freedom, and perhaps the pursuit of a mystical bunny which has already been warned and has wisely exited to the other side of the ranch. My boots crunch over the cross-raked paths that lead me to every barn, paddock…and horse. Night rounds. Eighty percent of our horses are in some state of slumber, gently dozing in the new peacefulness of the ranch that they own. There is a predictable pattern that instills the same tenderness and effusive protection that I always felt with those last nightly checks on my son Jared, when I would peek in on him before retiring for the evening. In those tender moments I would gently uncurl his dimpled fingers from an action figure or toy, and cover him with his blanket. Similarly, in my “tucking in” of our horses for the evening, there is a predictable pattern. The fillies are always lying together, nearly cuddling. The yearlings; Kami, McGarrah and Mathe, snooze together…best friends in play and in sleep. Ironically, in two separate stalls, Sparrow and Gigi, and Keely and Cronin sleep tightly intertwined, and unlike when my night rounds included the final “tuck-in” of my own child, I frequently enter the “girls’dorm” to remove Jolly Balls or ground feeders, rather than the one-eyed dinosaur or toy motorcycle. With the predictability of an accurate weather forecast, Banker and Justin wait for me, alert and with expectation. Their nighttime routine includes a treat retrieved from my right pocket…both on my way down the aisle, and then again on my return. I have never disappointed them, as the nighttime snack has far more significance than just a cookie or bit of carrot, for them it signifies that they are worthy…..and they are.

In my nighttime duties I am without interruption and most viscerally reminded of the curse and injustice of expectations. Our beloved and treasured horses are most often delivered to our gates out of missed, and most certainly unrealistic, expectations. Some of the stories are clear, and others we fit together like pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle. The show horse who was no longer competitive, passed down to a family who wanted something “better”, who then became a lesson horse but could not stay sound (even on four grams of Bute a day) and then ended up at an auction where horses are sold by the pound to kill buyers. They all have a story, and while many of the stories differ, the one similarity tends to be one where the horse cannot meet the expectations of those who they counted on the most.

In our paradigm at Red Bucket, our mindset has been turned inside out. Ironically, the tables have turned and our horses are the holders of the expectations! We work tirelessly to ensure that each resident has an enriched life and is thoughtfully and consciously prepared for a forever home…one that really means forever. In the beauty of our work and the impact of our results, we are the transformers of suffering to joy, from abandonment to belonging, from unwanted to forever. In those last precious moments of priceless reminders, it is the expectation of a peaceful sleep, the absolute guarantee of breakfast at 7:00 am, and the metamorphism of the expectation of kindness, safety, and lasting care. As I round the corner and pass through the gate, my dogs scamper ahead of me in expectation of their nighttime treat; meanwhile, Banker and Justin gently collapse on their bed of clean shavings until the morning brings with it the promise of a new and beautiful day.