The Rescue Horse
I was looking for a good pack horse early last Spring, and the man on the phone told me the appaloosa mare he'd advertised in the Thrifty Nickle had packed game out of the Pecos Wilderness. He said she was as sure-footed as a mule. She was hard to catch. She was small. She wouldn't let you handle her back hooves. The price was firm—$500.
I wasn't quite prepared for what I found when we went to take a look at her that evening. In her 10 x 12 pen, she looked even smaller than I'd anticipated, a little over 14 hands and small boned, almost frail. She had a "- N" branded on one shoulder, which a little web research later revealed to be the Navajo Nation brand. A "Q" a "T," and an "A" were branded on one hip, and a bunch of unintelligible numbers on the other. Like a math problem gone bad.
The man said she didn't eat much, although he said he gave her hay every day. Her back hooves were twice as long as her front. He told me he trimmed them himself. I caught my husband's eye over the horse's wild spray of salt and pepper mane. It sprung from skinny her neck like piano wire.
The horse didn't have a name. The man said they called her "T-A" because of the brands on her hindquarters. She had steely, distant eyes. In fact, the little horse seemed to be made of metal. Her sides shuddered. Her body went rigid as a board when you got close. Her mousy coat was speckled brown and black and white. Amazingly, her dirty silver tail nearly reached the ground, the last bit of glamour left to her under the circumstances. I tried to lift it, and she clamped it down tight against her bony rump. I could almost feel her teeth clench. I tried again, and she grudgingly released.
As I rubbed my hand over the little horse's body, I watched her ears follow the sound of my voice. I thought I saw an eye flicker in my direction but then turn inward again just as quickly. Had I imagined it? I spoke to her. I saw it again.
I rubbed her hindquarters and then down a back leg, put my hand on a hoof, was met with major resistance. I could hear the inrush of my husband's breath as I was pretty sure he was probably going to say, "Hon, I don't think..." I rubbed some more, wishing I'd worn a helment. I scrouged up as close to those spotted hindquarters as possible to avoid getting the lethal end of any kick and asked the horse if she would please give it to me, please. And then suddenly, she cocked a hip and released it.
The man was astounded. So was I.
I was even more astounded as we found ourselves writing a $500 check out payable to the man for the purchase of the appaloosa horse.
On the way home, my husband told me, "That horse is going to need years of therapy."
