Bridge Called Hope (12 page)

Information scattered through the volunteers like white-hot sparks blowing off an abandoned fire. Although there were many faces I did not recognize, most I had seen before. One
older rancher, who I knew only casually, stood with his hands buried deep within his worn coat pockets. He had arrived very early and shared with me what he had learned from the lieutenant in charge. He recounted how four years prior, the middle-aged couple fled to this area after being charged with horse abuse in the state of Washington. They moved to this remote sight to start their future herd in seclusion. Within a short amount of time, they were able to secretly acquire roughly twenty horses to start their “retirement” herd. Their unseemly horses consisted of the rejected—old, injured, or behaviorally dangerous—horses from local auctions, race tracks, and equine meat buyers.

It appeared that most of the adult stallions had been kept in the tiny pens, while all of the male offspring ran wild within the rapidly growing herd. It seemed as if the offending couple hadn’t bothered to separate out the colts for four years, ensuring that every male horse born on the property was left an intact stallion capable of breeding any female old enough to be in estrus. The breeding “program” was completely unattended. This rag-tag herd had been left to field-breed at will, so sons were breeding their mothers, brothers were breeding their sisters, and fathers were breeding their own daughters. Many fillies had been impregnated before they were even two years of age, fully three years earlier than what most would consider a suitable time for them to safely conceive. The milling, destitute horses before me had grown into a herd of more than one hundred starving souls.

There was more.

I could see that the dwelling being occupied by the couple was no more than a steel travel trailer. Holes in the walls where windows had once been were now boarded up in a primitive effort to prevent the bitter wind, which was now beginning to
blow, from entering their living space. I was told that they did not have conventional power or water either. A generator was needed to provide electricity to start up the water pump which would, in turn, fill the meager plumbing with water … until the generator shut off again.

Many of us looked to the horses. How long had it been since they had been offered a drink of water? Even in frigid conditions, the average horse needs at least five gallons of fresh water a day—in this case … multiplied by 130!

Slowly circling back toward the main area where the deputies had gathered, I learned even more about what needed to happen. The task at hand was monumental for the overwhelmed animal control division of the Sheriff’s Department. Slowly they began to organize themselves with chosen volunteers and branch out into areas of immediate need. The horses were desperate for water, so a small team set out to see what they could do to remedy the situation.

We learned that the couple also had acquired several working dogs that were likewise “field breeding.” An estimated sixty dogs were reported to be living in a nameable mountain of garbage. Another tenacious team was sent head-first into the enormous heap of trash to retrieve them.

Frantic canine mothers barked nervously as, one by one, officers and volunteers pulled their beautiful black and white puppies from dens burrowed deep within the waste.

I walked to the “catch truck” where all the captured puppies were being held. As I approached, every air hole filled with a tiny nose that sniffed wildly to perhaps catch a scent of their elusive mothers. Cautiously, I held my flat palm up to one little nose. To my surprise, the black nose was replaced by a little pink tongue that began to wash my hand. Casting my caution
aside, I pushed two of my fingers through the hole and began to rub the head of my frightened new little friend.

Staying until another officer returned to the truck, I asked if any of the dogs were in need of a home. He assured me that with nearly miraculous speed, they already had homes waiting … for
all
of them.

Continuing my evaluation of the scene, I moved on past the gigantic pile of trash and dogs, the couple’s battered travel trailer, and the tiny pens imprisoning horses mired within their own manure.

The main herd beckoned like a sickening song. The enormity of what loomed before me was staggering. It was becoming more difficult to make my mind focus on such hideous sights as they continued to multiply like a revolting swarm.

While picking my way through trash, rotting lumber, and collapsed fencing, I noticed something else … something unspeakable. Their unmistakable presence shouted in silence of unfathomable horror and suffering—there were … bones … 
everywhere
.

Dear Lord, how many have died here?

Like somber witnesses of what could be kept secret no longer, a myriad of dull bones, scattered as far as I could see, began to murmur the truth of what really happened here.

As the starving horses collapsed in death … the starving dogs devoured their flesh.

Overwhelming sorrow poured down my spine like ice water. My entire chest tightened with the realization of such horrific carnage.

The fog was continuing to lift. The heavy gray light of morning seemed to join the frozen earth and groan in mourning for these lost ones.

But the worst was still before me.

Troy had made his way from the crush of people toward the main herd as well. In silence, we met at the makeshift gate which was nothing more than two poles caught in a twisted ream of barbed wire. After passing through, we spread out to cover more area. The entire scene was unspeakable, unthinkable, incomprehensible.

Every horse I examined was a new example of the various stages of suffering. Even though they were nearly all young, most wore the expression of those who have seen and known much anguish, like broken souls returning home from war. None were approachable; all moved away with wary, rolling eyes. Eyes that futilely searched the earth for something, anything, to fill the yawning emptiness within.

The area that encompassed the main herd of horses was enormous. I could not see the perimeter fencing in any direction. My best guess was that the herd was pressing against the area closest to the vicinity of the pens, trash, and “house” because they were thirsty. Troy and I continued walking. The milling mass of horses opened and closed like phantoms around us as we drifted through their midst. Having seen nearly all I could take, I looked back at Troy. There, standing amongst a sea of ragged, serrated spines, Troy returned and held my gaze. His handsome face was streaked with compassion. Without speaking a word, he heavily raised his arm and pointed.

I looked in the direction he indicated … and could not believe what my eyes saw.

As the horses parted before my hesitant steps, only thirty feet away stood the embodiment of the living dead. Gripped by horror, I could not move another step. She was the most grotesque creature I have ever seen. I could hardly breathe. She was later confirmed as a two-and-a-half-year-old thoroughbred
quarter-horse cross. In the world known by most, this cross-breeding produces a towering, muscular horse. At this age, most would stand between fifteen and sixteen hands and weigh well over one thousand pounds. Yet in this forsaken wasteland, she didn’t even reach thirteen hands and her life looked to be vanishing nearly as quickly as the morning fog. The wasted filly’s total body weight was estimated at
less
than four hundred pounds!

Never have I known a horse in this condition to live.

I have held a horse in better condition … that died in my arms.

Her skeletal body was so parched and drawn that she looked more like an ancient mummy than a young horse. It appeared as if one could nearly span her haunches with their open bare hands. Her top-line was lifted above her body by a spine that resembled uniformly spaced daggers, each threatening to pierce the thin flesh that it supported. Her weakness was so extensive that she appeared to not be able to bend any of her joints. What remained of her utterly withered muscle structure was so frail, it looked as if she were to bend her knees, she might not have enough strength to stop herself from crashing to the ground. There was evidence on her knees, shoulders and chest of where this had already happened countless times.

In my many years of equine rescue I have seen numerous horses grow unnatural body hair in a desperate, eleventh-hour effort to maintain their core temperature, but this horse’s lanugo was unlike
anything
I had ever witnessed before. Her hair, instead of being straight like a normal horse, had become nappy and wool-like. Its rampant growth was even invading her mouth, nostrils, and eyes. Sadly, her desperate efforts to stay warm were not supported with enough fuel to work.
Consequently, she had many patches on her back where her skin had literally frozen off. Even from my distance, I could easily smell the stench emanating from her rotting back.

There she stood, emaciated beyond comprehension, balancing on pencilly legs so stiff that her minimal movements resembled more that of a tin man than of a young horse. Would she have enough strength to be moved? Could she survive one more night? Would she be the next to collapse into oblivion?

Tears were dropping off my jaw onto my heavy coat. All I could think of was Mercy. She was a similarly starved, pregnant mare that we had rescued a few years earlier. Immediately I was overcome by the memory of the last moments of holding her head … as she finally gave up her struggle to live.
Dear Lord, my precious Mercy. Not again … please, Lord … not again.
The memory of her death rolled over me like a crushing boulder of sorrow. My heart splintered into immeasurable fragments of grief. Standing in the presence of this dying little soul yanked me back to the moment when Mercy gave up her life in my arms. She suffered immeasurably more than any creature should have to endure. For long moments I wept in silence.

Grief can be like a thunderstorm—blue sky suddenly giving way to black. We can be caught off guard by the hurt of what we have seen, what we have felt. Mourning has consumed many of us in a crashing downpour of pain.

Please, Lord; with this little one … show me what to do
 …

Thankfully, heaven’s blue is permanent … grief’s dark clouds are not. Gradually, if we hold fast and keep standing, our grief-blackened skies will once again give way to the enduring blue.

With new resolve, I wiped my face and took a few deep breaths.

Indirectly, I took several steps toward her … then a few more. In near silence, I had slipped to just a dozen feet away from her.

She did not move her feet; instead, her eyes rolled to look at me.

Immediately I looked at the ground. I did not want to frighten her or cause her to expend herself in any way. Like two watchmen guarding a post, we both stood fast.

I glanced up to see that her eyes were so rolled in my direction that much of the white sclera surrounding her eye was visible. As her eye held mine, I rotated slightly so that she could only see one of my eyes. For most horses, to be engaged with both eyes of another being is considered stalking, while to be watched with only one eye is merely observing. I continued to watch.

Her white-rimmed eye held mine.

There, like a distant beacon winking within the frigid, drab light, I could see it … an ember within her was still burning. Although her body was very near death … her will was not. She was still fighting. As horrific as she appeared, she had not yet given up hope … and neither would I.

Troy’s hand gently squeezed my shoulder as he joined me and whispered into my ear, “She’s the one. Of all these horses, she is the ‘least of the least’ … the one that needs help the most. Truly, she is why we are here … when she is able, she is the one that will come home with us.”

In silence we stood hand in hand, quietly verifying the new pact between us. A thinness in the low cloud cover allowed weak yellow shafts of sunlight to filter through. Hope was beginning to flow.

After what seemed to many of us as some of the longest hours of our lives, two final locations were found for the horses. It was around one o’clock when the good news arrived. The lieutenant in charge gathered the volunteers together and made the long awaited announcement. The first location was in Bend, about twenty-five miles away and in close proximity to a veterinary practice. This facility would be used to house the thirty horses that were the most critically ill. The second location would be the Deschutes County Fairgrounds in Redmond, which was about forty miles away. The livestock set-up which was already there would become the perfect place to house the remaining one hundred.

It was time for the long, dangerous process of moving the horses to begin.

The next daunting challenge was how to safely coax primarily unhandled horses into the claustrophobic confines of a horse trailer. As with most things in life that people are passionate about, everyone had their own distinct opinions of how they thought things should be accomplished. Although most of the officers and volunteers had skill in trailering horses, few had ever experienced the unique challenges associated with attempting to move truly wild horses.