November 11 - Angels.

Little D joined the Great Herd yesterday morning.

It was her time.

I knew it was her time.

She told me so.

Over the weekend, she had come to the conclusion that she just didn’t want to fight any more. She knew she was separating at the hoof & she knew there was no going back.

Then, on Monday afternoon, she told me again - loud & clear - & I promised her I’d make the pain go away the next morning, Tuesday.

If you’ll remember, I said I’d feared that she was separating & when Dr. Rollins looked yesterday morning, it was obvious to him at a glance. Approximately 25% of her hoof had separated from her ankle.

As Little D & Eric & I began the walk around the arena & up the lane, Eric thoughtfully grabbed a small flake of Diamond’s beloved alfalfa.

And the three of us marched – that’s right, she virtually marched – toward the inevitable, stopping every few feet for Little D to eat more of her hay.

I say “marched”, because we’d told her that we were going “over there” &, once we got there, we’d make the pain go away for good. And she understood that & looked forward to it & she walked with authority – painful authority – in exactly the same manner my little Dawnie had happily marched toward the end of her pain fifteen months earlier.

The resemblance was strikingly uncanny.

And as she left us, our eyes met & she thanked me & I thanked her & we told each other how much we loved each other & then she was gone.

My little angel.

No more pain.

Good, Little D.

Great, Little D.

Damn.

Little D’s passing left me thinking about the recent passing of another great friend.

Holly Marino, who ran The Horse Rescue of North Scottsdale.

So, in the spirit of the angels, let me tell you a little bit about her.....

An awful lot of horses lost a real good friend when Holly died.

They lost a friend who had given her all to care for them & to find them homes where they could finally find love & joy & happiness.

I don’t think anyone really knows how many she cared for or found homes for, but in the decade-&-a-half or so that Holly Marino ran The Horse Rescue, they surely number well up into the thousands.

That’s right - Holly Marino found homes for thousands of unwanted, neglected, injured, abused & abandoned horses.

Thousands.

It didn’t matter to Holly if they came from racetracks throughout the west or if they came from somebody’s back yard or if they had been left to fend for themselves in an unforgiving desert, half-starved, sick & struggling to survive.

Holly’s place was always crowded. Usually overcrowded.

Not because she wasn’t adept at matching needy horses with the right two-leggeds – no, she was a wizard at that.

It was because, as she’d say with a simple shrug, “They needed help.”

And that meant it was often come-one, come-all around Holly’s place.

Then she would go to work, placing ads & making hundreds of phone calls - even late into the night – seeing to it that every horse found a home.

Holly was absolutely tireless when it came to her horses.

I remember one time when Dr. Rollins was at my place. My phone rang. It was Holly.

“Quick – bring the Doc & get over here right now!”

“What is it?!?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Just hurry!”

A few days earlier, Holly had rescued a small herd of horses that had been abandoned in the desert. There were maybe six or eight of them, mostly little mares. They were all emaciated – nothing but ribs & hip bones & haunted eyes.

As we rolled into her driveway, Holly said, “Quick! That little girl’s having a baby – right now!”

The little mama – the one who came to be known as Little Bird Sing Pretty - had been so skinny & malnourished that she hadn’t even appeared to be pregnant. But there she was, right in the throes of giving birth. By the time we’d gotten the other horses away from her & descended upon her, her little foal was breathing & trying to stand up.

“Quick!”, said Doc, “Get that mare away from the baby. She’s so weak I’m afraid she’ll fall on him & crush him.”

Mama & baby were separated. Mama had no milk whatsoever. Nothing to help her little boy.

So, over the next weeks & months, Holly became the little boy’s mom.

That very day, she erected a pen in her garage & put the little foal into it.

Then, she somehow rounded up a supply of colostrum, crucial to a new-born foal. Without the colostrum found in a mother’s milk, the little foal would not be able to generate an immune system, among other things, & would be doomed.

And because foals have to eat constantly, Holly & her daughter, Madison, took turns feeding little Jimmy McCricket every hour on the hour – night & day – for several weeks.

“Sleep be damned! We have a horse to save!”

It worked, too, because Jimmy McCricket grew up to be a fine, strong young lad.

That’s who Holly was.

A young woman who gave up her own personal life for weeks to save another’s innocent young life.

And I think that little window into Holly’s dedication to saving that little boy’s life exemplifies her wonderful spirit. A wonderful spirit that always put the best interest of horses first & foremost.

And now?

I know that now – right now – she’s walking among the Great Herd, acting like a mother hen to the legion of those who thunder past, looking for one that needs a little something special.

And a beautiful little chestnut mare named Diamond – Little D – joined that herd yesterday morning.

But I have a strange sensation of comfort today.

Because I know that when Little D arrived there, another beautiful spirit was waiting for her.

One that said, “Don’t worry, little girl. I’ll take care of you ‘til you feel at home.”

An angel named Holly.

November 10 - Courage.

The Wall came down twenty years ago today.

The Berlin Wall.

Gee, all that seems so far away & so odd now, doesn’t it?

That right smack dab there in the middle of Germany, there was the country’s largest city, divided in half by a gigantic concrete wall: one side was part of democratic West Germany, the other side, communist East Germany.

Remember No Man’s Land? The fenced-off area that separated people from the Wall? A strip of land that only rabbits occupied, the recipients of heads of lettuce & cabbage tossed to them by tourists & residents of the West.

A strip of land bordered by barbed wire & guard towers manned by sharpshooters. And lit up at night by monster kleig lights.

A strip of land that served as a killing ground for so many who tried to sprint their way to freedom.

And, as the Soviet Union began to crumble under the more-or-less approving eye of Mikhail Gorbachev, a breach was cut into the Wall one day in November of 1989 & the radio reported that soldiers were not firing upon those tearing at the Wall with their bare hands.

And thousands flocked to that breach & began tearing at it & running through its holes to be reunited with relatives they hadn’t seen in over 25 years.

And, in a matter of hours, the Wall was gone.

A hideous, impenetrable scar, erected by those profoundly lacking in the courage of their ideology to sway others to their way of thinking - was gone.

It all seems so strange now, doesn’t it?

So far away.

So horribly ridiculous.

I might as well get this out there right now......

Dr. Rollins is coming this morning to evaluate Little D. He may want to x-ray her & he may just tell me what I pretty much already know: that she isn’t improving, that she’s back-sliding.

I fear that that infection above her right front hoof is really the harbinger of separation. And separation is fatal. But maybe not.

Either way, whether any x-rays reveal that she’s further rotating or if the hoof is beginning to separate, she’s doomed.

If, by some outside chance that there is a chance, we’ll do whatever it takes for her.

But the poor little girl is in constant pain right now. She lies down most of the time.

And I cannot let her hurt that way.

I will not let her hurt that way.

I love her too much for that.

Damn.

Why is it that so often the universe seems to bestow its cruelty upon the innocent?

Ah, I guess it just seems that way.

Because the truth is, the universe does not care.

It doesn’t care about me, it doesn’t care about you, it doesn’t care about guys building walls & it doesn’t care about Little D.

It just is.

And all the prayers & good thoughts & religious or pseudo-religious rites in the world will not affect it.

Granted, all the prayers & good thoughts & good tidings do, indeed, help us – we can feel their power & their warm embrace. They’re like food to a starving man.

But they will not & do not affect the universe.

Our task – however difficult it may be – is simply accepting that.

Maybe, with Little D, we just need a stronger antibiotic & a little more time. An adjustment here or there to her treatment. Oh, man, I hope like anything that that’s the case.

Either way, the universe will have spoken.

And we have to accept its decision.

And, as the character, Rabbit, said on last night’s episode of ‘Trauma’, “As hard as it is & as easy as it is, we just have to live”.

Now....here’s a little whiplash for you.....

We found our Kringle.

Eric’s Stephanie found our Kringle.

So – Aunt Beverly – in case you read this before I can post it on ABR, I don’t think we’ll need to impose a Santa-suit-building task on you as you’ve volunteered to do.

Can you imagine that? Our friend, Beverly, actually offered to MAKE a Santa suit for us! Talk about a good friend, huh? Not only that, but she sent me a package of brownies the other day, which I proceeded to scarf down with great gusto.

Good, Beverly.

Oh – I must digress here for a minute.....

Last week, our friend, CJ sent me an entire homemade apple-pan-dowdie or whatever it’s called. And it, too, is now history.

Thank you, m’dear.

Good, CJ.

If this keeps up, I’ll be challenging Solo for the bellied-down prize.

Back to Claus......

Stephanie’s found a guy - & I spoke with him last night – who does Santa every year. He gets paid by those who can afford it & he does it for free for those who can’t. News flash: we fall into the latter category.

And a thought hit me while I was speaking to Santa (BTW, our phone connection was incredibly clear, considering it had to travel between this god-forsaken desert & the North Pole). Last spring, a company donated a whole slew of plush little white horses & dozens & dozens of ‘em are still sitting in the tack room.

So – each kid who gets his or her picture taken with the Big Elf & (probably) Miss Akira will also get a present. A little white horse. Soo-weet, huh?

Santa also said he’ll be open to hearing Christmas wish lists & promised that he won’t pull a “Christmas Story” on any kid asking for an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle, a la Ralphie. He won’t shove him with his boot & tell him, “Ah, you’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

Good, Santa.

We’ve also found what I believe are two new workers.

A lovely woman named Amanda (who rescues guinea pigs, of all things, but hey – they need rescuing, too!) was here yesterday & has agreed to work Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays & Mondays.

Another woman whom I’ve yet to meet but have spoken to on the phone – Veronica – wants the Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday shift. She’s coming this morning for the first time.

And I’m thrilled.

But how do you like that?

Two women who want a pretty physical job.

Guess all the Phoenix area out-of-work guys are busy polishing their shiny oversized pick-ups (so they look good going through the drive-thru at Mickey D’s) or busy watching Oprah or Judge Judy.

Good, Amanda.

Good, Veronica.

In closing today, & thinking about Little D, I’m reminded of one of the hallmarks of AA – The Serenity Prayer:

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The courage to change the things I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.”

Sticking to that is real, real hard sometimes.

Nov. 9 - Down to the Wire.

* Note: I apologize for this blog being posted 8 hours late today. We are at the mercy of one of the most overrated media corporations in the world – Cox Communications. Do yourselves a favor – if you ever have a choice between Cox & another outfit, choose the other one.

And now, back to our regularly-scheduled program.......


Hall of Fame Trainer Bob Baffert beat me to it.

So, by dint of Baffert’s interview, did Joe Drape.

And I’ll bet that millions of others have thought the same thing over the past 36 hours.

Quite simply, here it is:

That both Zenyatta & Rachel Alexandra be named Horse of the Year.

For the first time ever.

Because that title is one that’s voted on by a bunch of folks, I guess somebody’d have to propose that vote first: Should Zenyatta & Rachel Alexandra both be named Horse of the Year? Yes or no.

If the answer’s ‘yes’, well, there you have it.

If the answer’s ‘no’, well, then you have a bunch of people who think their opinions really matter & that’s the most important thing to them.

Because the REAL most important thing here is that, this year, we have been blessed with two horses that have outperformed everything thrown at them. Boys, girls – doesn’t matter.

This year, we have seen two horses go up against the best the competition can put on the racetrack &, in each case, neither of those two horses had another’s nose in front of them at the wire.

Both girls have gone undefeated in 2009.

Both girls have gone up against the winners of the world’s Grade I races & have beaten them all.

And nobody can use that stupid old gauge of time, either. For one thing, Z ran most of her races on synthetic surfaces & Miss Rachel ran all of hers on dirt. And you can’t compare those times.

If you sit down & study all of Zenyatta’s races this year, you will undoubtedly say, “There. She’s got to be Horse of the Year.”

And she’s earned it.

If you sit down & study all of Rachel Alexandra’s races this year, you will undoubtedly say, “There. She’s got to be Horse of the Year.”

And she’s earned it.

Both of these girls have brought millions of new fans to the sport. Both have done wonders to rejuvenate it.

Not only have both of these girls carried “weight-for-age” on their backs, they’ve carried an entire industry. And both of these girls have carried the hopes & dreams of men & women & boys & girls & racing neophytes & grizzled old horsemen down the lane & under the wire & into the winner’s circle.

Each & every time they’ve stepped foot onto the racetrack.

There are probably those among us who will try & analyze the situation to death & will have their iron-clad argument for either girl.

To them, I say analyze this: Perfection.

It was displayed by both girls.

And they are inseparable in that regard.

At least in the eyes of all who have gone up against them.

And in the eyes of the racing public.

Zenyatta & Rachel Alexandra – Horses of the Year.

It’s theirs, A (Alexandra, Rachel) to Z (Zenyatta).

Now, I don’t know if anyone will ever read this little missive because, for the second time in less than thirty days, my “friend in the digital age” – Cox Communications – is experiencing another system-wide outage.

Estimated time of repair? “Uh, we don’t know sir.” Today? “We hope so, sir.”

Thanks, “friend”.

With “friends” like these..........

Deliver me.

Please deliver me to a place devoid of over-promising & under-delivering.

Please deliver me to a place where people tell you what they’re going to do & then they simply go out & do it.

And I’m afraid I just might be guilty of that with Little D.

I have promised her that we’d make her better.

And I’m just not sure that’s happening, despite all of our efforts.

Yesterday, & again for most of the night, she’s been lying down. More than usual. She’s very obviously in pain.

And pain is the very last thing I want for that little girl.

My very real fear is that I have to make a decision as to what’s best for her.

It’s nip & tuck.

Right down to the wire.

November 8 - God's Filly.

“She’s sent from God. It’s his filly. I think he wanted a horse & brought her down here to race against everyone.” – Zenyatta’s jockey, Mike Smith, November 7, 2009

Oh, man. I’ll say.

And, in the case of Zenyatta, “to race against everyone” means to beat everyone.

Everyone who’s ever, ever stepped onto a racetrack with her.

Including the best boys in the world. European champions. The winners of the Kentucky Derby & the Belmont.

Everyone.

And, each time, she’s crossed the wire with her ears still pricked.

Jockey Smith said he’s never had to ask her to reach her bottom. Never had to ask her to give every single ounce of strength she has.

Even yesterday afternoon, coming from so far off the pace she was almost in the next race. Even yesterday afternoon, in what was arguably one of the most incredible stretch drives in the history of the sport.

It was a stretch drive that took your breath away.

And still, she had some left in the tank.

After an almost-catastrophe before the start, when Quality Road got himself all into a swivet & would not load into the gate. He kicked. He bucked. He broke through the front of the gate. If not for one gutsy assistant starter nearly getting himself severely injured trying - & succeeding – in bringing the poor horse under control, there may have been a disaster. BTW, Quality Road was intelligently scratched.

After Quality Road’s meltdown, all the horses had to back out of the gate & the jockeys all dismounted.

Then they had to do it all again.

Not a good thing to happen just prior to the start of the nation’s richest race.

And when the gates opened, Zenyatta stood there for a moment, flat-footed. And when she finally decided to make her presence known & left the gate, she was on the wrong lead.

By then, she had spotted the leaders a good ten lengths.

“Not to worry”, said Z.

“Not to worry”, said Smith.

And millions of Zenyatta’s fans worried.

This was not looking good.

She still trailed the field by a day-&-a-half at the half-mile pole.

I said to myself, “That gate thing just might’ve cooked her today.”

Halfway around the final turn, I said to myself, “That gate thing DID cook her today.”

And the announcer felt the same way.

He said something like, “if Zenyatta can make up that much ground, she’ll be a super-horse.”

And then the super-horse sprouted wings.

She spotted an opening & flew toward it. Then it closed. So she hung a right & went around to the outside. But by then, the leader, Gio Ponti, was well into the lane & into his fifth-gear stretch run.

“Not to worry”, said Z.

“Not to worry”, said Smith.

And then, out there in the middle of the racetrack, Zenyatta said, “Watch this.”

And we did.

And we saw something that burned itself into our memories forever.

We saw a super-horse.

We saw perhaps the greatest stretch drive any of us has ever witnessed.

In my book, it ranks neck-&-neck with Forego’s unbelievable drive in a Jockey Club Gold Cup thirty-some years ago. A race of which Willy Shoemaker said, “It was the greatest race on the greatest horse I’ve ever ridden.”

And yesterday, Zenyatta put an asterisk next to the Shoe’s quote.

Fourteen straight times into the gate.

Fourteen straight times under the wire.

First.

Against the best the world had to throw at her.

And, like Smith says, she’s never had to reach all the way down.

Oh. My. Gawd.

Zenyatta.

Here, take a few minutes & watch these.

The first is a compilation of pre-race pieces, several of which feature Z’s fancy trademark dance steps (that’s right – she dances, too!). It’s a few minutes long, but well worth your time.......

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXWDdFYmhkI

And here it is.....the race itself.....bookmark this one & every time you feel the need to have your tires pumped, watch it again. Because every time you watch it, you’ll get up feeling that yes, indeed, you can beat the world.........

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ud_XPH6Eix4

There.

You’re welcome.

But don’t thank me.

Thank Zenyatta & the guy who sent her here.

To race against everyone.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, albeit only a couple of quickies today......

Chester’s eye seems all better.

I think he did get something into it & it got irritated. He got a couple of days of triple anti-biotic anyway & now seems to be past whatever the problem was.

Good, Chester.

Oh - & this just in – I got word this morning from the faire Jenn who said she’s found us a Claus! She said the only thing we need now is a suit & she also thinks she has that covered.

Ya-a-ay, Jenn!

I was kind of afraid that job would be up to me & if you’ve ever seen the movie “Bad Santa”, you’ll know what I mean when I say I don’t think that would’ve worked out too well. Well, not really, but you get the picture.

Good, Jenn.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t bring myself today to write about our poop situation, which Eric has well in hand (sorry – I couldn’t resist that). Or putting loads of grindings into big Charlies & Min’s place & Little D’s place. Or the fact that, today or tomorrow, we’re gonna start on that new pen next to Miss Guess.

I will say that we’re doing a darned good job caring for Little D’s recently-infected hoof & that she’s being very patient with us while we work on it.

Yesterday morning, her temperature was a degree lower than it had been the previous five mornings. But last night, it was up where it had been in the evenings. I wonder if, like humans, horses’ temperatures are slightly elevated late in the day.

But it’s only been two days & Doc said it might take several for her infection to begin to abate.

I love you, Little D. Keep fighting, kid. We’ll beat this thing.

Venture is rapidly turning into the mayor of the breezeway.

He just hangs out there, reins up over his neck, & follows me around while I’m getting medicines ready & lunches ready & all that. He even comes with me when I go to the haystack to load the cart with hay for lunch.

Yesterday, he mosied over to the front of Ted’s house & CharlieHorse’s house – just to say hello. Natch, everybody else stared at him incredulously.....”Hey! Loose horse! Why isn’t somebody going over to catch him?!?”

Because he ain’t going anywhere, that’s why.

Not like ye all of the aberrant behavior.

More on Venture’s adventures later.

Right now, my tires need pumping.

So I’m gonna go back & watch those two videos.

I’m gonna go watch Zenyatta do her little dance for the crowd before the race.

And then I’m gonna watch that race for the umpteenth time.

And, though it isn’t on either video, once she got into the familiar spot called the winner’s circle, she danced yet again.

And then I’m gonna pinch myself.

Because Zenyatta is a dream come true.

November 7 - Tidings of Comfort & Joy.

According to today’s NY Times, the broader measure unemployment rate (includes those who have been unemployed so long they’ve fallen off the rosters & those that are underemployed – part-timers) is 17.5% - the highest ever recorded. Note: they didn’t keep statistics like this back during the Great Depression.

Pretty grim, huh?

And the states of Arizona & California have higher rates than the average 17.5% due to the housing bubble teat they sucked on for so many years without considering the possibility that that golden cow just might get old & run dry.

So one would think that people in Arizona might be looking for work, right? Any kind of work to bring in some dough.

I put an ad on Craigslist the other day for morning help. Three hours. Twenty bucks. A little short of the minimum wage. Minimum wage would yield $21.75 for the same three hours’ work – but this is cash & no taxes or FICA or anything else would be taken out.

Ergo, a worker’s take-home would be slightly higher than minimum wage pay.

Number of inquiries to my ad: 5.

Number of people who want (at least part of) the job: 1.

There’s a woman who can work Tuesday, Wednesday & Thursday. We agreed she will start next week. Whether she shows up or not is a question for another day – Tuesday.

Let’s summarize.......

In Arizona, approximately one out of every five people is out of work.

An easy, part-time job is offered that will yield slightly more than the minimum wage.

And virtually nobody wants it.

About the only explanation my feeble mind can come up with is that this has become a land of the fat & lazy.

Statistics abound proving my first point. Half of the population is overweight. A third is obese. Why, I remember the days when if you saw an obese person, you kind of had to stare at him or her – like not being able to turn away from the scene of an accident.

Nowadays, it’s the norm. The blubber-ugly norm.

And lazy? I don’t know – you tell me.

But I guaran-goddam-tee you that there was once a time when people would flock to a part-time job that paid good cash money.

The only folks ‘round here that seem to be hungry for work are the undocumented aliens: they’re skinny & they’ll do anything to survive.

God love ‘em.

Guess I’d better bone up on my Spanish.

We (Eric, Troy the Trainer & I) treated Little D’s wound yesterday.

Oh, BTW – once it got light I found her impression material so none of us had to go through that ordeal again.

Eric figured out a way for us to trim away a piece of her bandage so we’ll be able to treat her wound daily without having to do a major tape-job. Worked like a charm.

We put the metronidazole paste on a gauze pad & placed it perfectly up against the wound. A couple of turns of tape & she was good to go. And – the little angel stood stoically through it all.

Her temp was down minimally yesterday morning over the previous mornings, but that’s still really too early to judge whether or not we have a handle on the infection or not. Same with last night’s temp. Both were down a little, but she still has a mild fever. The next couple of days ought to begin to show some improvement.

As I think I said, I’ve also started giving her her SMZs & metronidazole in Mooseshakes to make sure she gets 100% of their benefits. Natch, she’s not overly thrilled about that, but she stands there like a trouper & swallows every last drop of ‘em.

When Mikey & I were on our middle-o’-the-night walk this morning, she was lying down in the back of her house & got to her feet as we passed.

And she was right there at her feeder for breakfast today, too.

Good, Little D.

Wouldn’t you know it, but Chester has something going on with his left eye.

Yesterday morning, I found it at half-mast & it was tearing quite a bit.

I got some saline solution & washed it out, hoping that maybe he’d gotten something in it. Eric & I both looked at it pretty well & didn’t see anything terribly out of whack – no severe redness or visible abrasion or growth or anything & it isn’t swollen.

But, knowing that nothing is ever simple, I decided to start him on a three-times-a-day regimen of triple-antibiotic eye medication. We’ll see what happens over the next couple of days, but Dr. Rollins will be here on Tuesday to check on Little D, so if it isn’t any better, we’ll have him look at it.

Damn, huh?

The poor guy finds a happy home & right off the bat gets a bum eye.

Or, in my case, the poor guy finds a happy home & right off the bat I’m staring at a potential vet bill.

Oh – you know that the piece-de-resistance of our November 28th Open Ranch will be the presence of one Mr. St. Nicholas, right?

Well, because nothing is ever simple, yesterday we lost our promised Claus. Seems that’s a busy weekend for people buying refrigerators & the like, so it’s all-hands-on-deck for the delivery guys, of which our pseudo-Santa is one.

Now, because I don’t get off this ranch much & don’t really know too many people, I’m kind of between a rock & a hard place on this one. Oh, right – Dave (the original Santa) had even agreed to arrive with Santa suit in hand.

I don’t have a Santa.

And I don’t have a Santa suit.

I have physical problems with horses & I have a minute-&-a-half every 24 hours to try to market this place & I have a whole lotta things on my very little plate, but I don’t have a Santa & I don’t have a Santa suit.

The universe to Jim: “I don’t give a ripshit about your problems, boy. Just deal with ‘em.”

Okay. Gotcha. Message received. Clearly.

So, chances are yours truly will do double-duty three weeks from today: a half-hour as Santa, a half-hour as Jim the Sanctuary Guy, a half-hour as Santa, a half-hour as Jim the Sanctuary Guy, a half-hour as Santa, a half-hour as Jim the Sanctuary Guy – for about six hours.

This also affords me the opportunity to go on a time-consuming (& probably expensive) hunt for a Santa suit.

Great.

Because you know damned well that nobody else wants the job (see the above diatribe of trying to hire help).

Tidings of comfort & joy to you, too, universe.

But, alas – I ain’t too proud to beg.

If any of you reading this live around here, we need help in the following areas:

Setting up & manning the merchandise & merchandise tables.

Setting up & manning the horseshoe painting table.

Setting up & manning the refreshment table.

Setting up & running the horse painting thing.

Guides at several key locations.

Oh - &, uh – Santa.

And an elf (yep, an elf) that will also take photos of kids on horseback standing next to the promised Claus.

Help in getting the word out to as many people as humanly possible.

Help in lobbying the powers that be to extend the day from 24 to 28 hours & extend the length of the week from 7 days to 10 days.

Any & all help will be greatly appreciated.

Like I said, harkening back to Chester’s eye, nothing – nothing – is ever simple.

Today’s the day that the exquisite Miss Zenyatta goes up against the best boys in the world to go fourteen-for-fourteen & to retire undefeated.

I hope she does it. I really, really do.

Because all of us – not just us in the horse business – can use some really good news right now.

We all need to know that there’s still a modicum of greatness in this world.

Greatness in the form of an honest spirit giving her everything for the one thing she does better than anyone else – running & winning for the sheer joy of running & winning.

But you know what I hope for most of all?

I hope that she has a good, safe trip.

Godspeed, Z.

Godspeed, little girl.

November 6 - Whiplash.

Chester arrived bright & early yesterday morning.

Just the day before yesterday, he was on the schedule to appear before a gaggle of two-leggeds who may or may not have bid on him to be their lifelong friend.

Chances are, that type of bidding would’ve been sparse.

I mean, here’s a guy with the long curly hair that makes it obvious that he has Cushings disease. And his hip bones are jutting out. And, peeking through all that hair are a whole lotta ribs.

Chances are the killerman, standing there in his cowboy hat & shades, would’ve been doing some quick calculations in his head: “So much per pound at the slaughterhouse times the approximate weight of Chester equals X dollars. Throw in the approximate shipping costs & I know exactly how much I can bid for him.”

And he would’ve bid.

And he would’ve gotten Chester.

And Chester would’ve been put into a stock trailer, along with dozens of others horses, with no food or water & probably without the ability to even turn around. And they all would’ve headed south to the border & beyond.

And when he got to his final destination, Chester would’ve had ropes tied to his hind legs.

And a guy with a knife would’ve stabbed him in the back. In the spine. To paralyze him.

Then the winch attached to the ropes would begin to whir & Chester would’ve felt himself (if he could have felt anything by then) suspended in the air.

And then the guy with the knife would’ve slit Chester’s throat from ear to ear & left him hanging there while all of Chester’s lifeblood ran out & into a well-stained drain in the floor.

But that didn’t happen.

Not to Chester.

Dozens – maybe hundreds – of other horses, yes. That will happen to them this weekend. And next weekend. And every weekend after that.

But not to Chester.

Because Chester finally came home.

As we brought him from the front gate & up the lane, all the kids on the ranch shouted their greetings. All the kids in the field pressed their chests up against the fence to get a better look at “the new guy”.

And ol’ Chester’s head was just a-spinnin’.

He looked left. He looked right. He whinnied back at everybody.

In a somewhat ironic bit of poetry (the Cushings & long hair & all), he’s found himself living in MooseHouse. At least for the time being.

We gave him some Bermuda (no alfalfa for him – the Cushings) in two different feeders & he immediately went to town on it.

Pretty soon, he & Ted were getting acquainted &, before long, were mouth-wrasslin’ over their common fence. Ted & the Moose used to do that all the time & I know he’s been missing it.

Chester couldn’t believe his good luck when the supplement cart came ‘round in the afternoon. “Hey! Yo! Alright!!” And, like the Moose, he gets Enrich 12 & not Strategy. But the bran? You betcha.

It was gone before you could say “Jack Robinson”.

As you know, at the end of the early evening walk-around, it’s apple time for that side of the ranch.

“Hmm”, thought I, “Wonder if Chester likes apples?”

Uh, yeah. He likes apples.

And he & Ted were very reminiscent of Moose & Ted, standing there next to each other, happily scarfing all that I had to offer.

I just got in from feeding everybody their breakfasts.

Chester: “Oh. Breakfast time already? Great, dude – just set it right there, willya?”

I’m absolutely loving watching Chester get used to his new life.

Nothing makes me happier than seeing somebody come in here, carrying all the baggage he or she has built up over the years & full of trepidation & doubt, & then seeing him or her take a big, deep breath & smile:

“I think I’m gonna like it here.”

Good, Chester.

Welcome home.

Poor Little D is still fully engaged in fighting for her life.

Doc came out yesterday & took one look at that abrasion/cut on the inside of her right forefoot. “Oh, Jim. It looks like she might be separating there. Let’s really have a look.”

When the hoof starts to separate from the ankle, it’s usually a mortal wound.

He gave her a sedative & got down there & looked closely.

He cut away a lot of the dead tissue & had the faire Annie fire up his dremel drill & used it to cut away some more.

When he was done, he was fairly satisfied that she is NOT separating. Despite our best efforts, there’s infection there (which is causing her fever & recent pain) & the necrotic tissue has been eating away at healthy tissue.

He cleaned it all out & had me make a little paste out of five tabs of metronidazole & put that directly on the wound. Then we wrapped it up. We have to do that every day for the foreseeable future & think we’ve found a way to do it without taking off her bootie/impression material aparatus.

She’ll also get 15 SMZs & 10 metronidalozes twice a day. And I’m gonna give ‘em to her in a Mooseshake to be certain she gets every last drop of her medicine (rather than pouring the mixture over her grain).

We’re back at a critical juncture for Little D. We just gotta get that infection under control. I was lamenting the fact that we’d been very consistent & precise with dressing that wound every day & still it had gotten the best of us.

Doc said the infection was coming from the inside out & that the topical treatment we thought might work just didn’t do the trick. Live & learn, he said.

He also said he’s considering meeting Jackie here to put a shoe/lift/pad/impression material combination on at least that hoof, if not both. It’ll be easier to treat & monitor her that way. He’ll confer with a couple of the surgeons at the clinic & get back to me on that.

As I gave Little D her breakfast this morning, she was lying in the back, not an uncommon occurrence of late. BTW – she was up & at her feeder at 3:30 this morning. And, wouldn’t you know it, she’s tossed the bootie off of her left foot (not the real bad one). I retrieved the bootie & there was no impression material inside it.

I came in the house & got the flashlight, but couldn’t find the impression material to save my life. At least not in the dark. It’s probably buried under some of her bedding. Once it gets light, I’ll go check. If we can’t find it, we’ll have to put her through the ordeal of having to do that process all over again.

Damn, I hope I find it. For her sake.

As you can see, the life we lead ‘round here can give you emotional whiplash. From one extreme to the other in a matter of thirty seconds & thirty yards.

On top of all this, I received an email yesterday announcing that my late friend’s – Holly’s – horses ALL need homes. Pronto. Like this weekend.

Holly’s ninth-grade daughter, Madison - one of the sweetest young women I’ve ever had the opportunity to watch grow up – has been trying to run the rescue & go to school & deal with her mom’s untimely death, all at the same time.

But, naturally, it’s too much for her.

And now she has over a dozen horses that she can’t afford to feed or care for. Especially her own horse – a big white Percheron.

I feel it incumbent upon me to try & help out Madison. But what can I do?

With the addition of Chester & the imminent arrival of those three horses from Tucson, we’re more than full.

Oh, I’ve sent out emails to just about everybody I know who can fog a mirror, but you know how successful that’ll be.

I don’t know.

It’s just a terrible situation.

If you know of anybody who might be able to help, please email me or call me & I’ll shoot the info to you right away: jim@tierramadrehorsesanctuary.org – 480.747.1070.

You don’t suppose – for just a second – that that big white Percheron might make a good friend for Venture in the field, do you?

No, Jimbo. Don’t go there. You can’t go there.

Not without financial help.

Hey – you don’t suppose some of those people down here at the fancy local car wash where I get my weekly $20 worth of gas – who spend SEVENTEEN BUCKS to get their cars washed – would want to help, do you?

Not in this lifetime, Jimbo.

Not in this lifetime.

Meanwhile, America’s Herd moves ever closer to the terrible whisper of the executioner’s knife.

Whiplash.

November 5 - America's Herd Is Fighting For Its Life.

Let’s hear it for Joe Drape.

My friend Joe is the horse racing writer for the New York Times. And he’s on an almost one-man quest in the national media to bring the horrible problem of drugs in racing out into the open.

With Joe, there are no sacred cows.

Not owners, not trainers, not veterinarians, not track operators, & not racing commissions. Because they’re all at least partially responsible for the mess our horses are in today.

Here’s a happy little factoid Joe points out in his column today: that 9 of the top 10 trainers based in the United States have, at least once, been cited for medication violations.

Joe quotes Tom Ludt, a member of the Kentucky Horse Racing Commission, as saying, “It seems like we’re handing out speeding tickets instead of arresting people for dealing drugs.”

At a congressional hearing last year, Hall of Fame trainer Jack Van Berg testified that horse racing has become “chemical warfare”.

(Just as a sidebar, there’s almost never been a trainer like gravelly-voiced Van Berg. His horses have always been supremely conditioned & if & when he had any semi-longshot in against an overwhelming favorite & you didn’t at least drop a deuce on his horse, as often as not you’d be tearing up all your tickets when the race was over.)

It’s a joke.

Trainers can be handed a suspension & then simply temporarily turn over their horses to a valued assistant or family member & it’s racing as usual.

A trainer can be suspended in one state – say, New York - & then happily go on to saddle a horse in the Breeders’ Cup in California. No problemo.

But, because Joe is a mild-mannered bulldog who ain’t lettin’ go, racing’s dirty little secret – check that – racing’s dirty BIG secret is now getting the attention it deserves & positive changes are in the air.

Granted, it ain’t gonna be easy.

Why?

Money, kids, money.

But it’s always been about the money. That’s what horse racing’s all about.

But there was a time when the industry cared more about its meal ticket than it does today.

When a trainer would see that a horse might just be a bit off & would tell the owner, “He just can’t go today. Let’s give him a week or so & try again. Plenty of races coming up.”

And the owner, though disappointed, would say, “Okay, you know best.”

Today?

Today a trainer sees a slight gimp or a little swelling & it’s drug-time. Just as long as the horse has it out of his system in time for the spit-box.

Oh, & that drug? Why, that’s just a little something to take that little twinge away. Think of it as a ‘horse aspirin’. Nothing to it.

Meanwhile, the good ol’ You Ess of Ay leads the world in catastrophic breakdowns.

You don’t think there just might be a connection there, do you?

Here are two of Joe’s pieces from today’s newspaper. Read ‘em & weep.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/05/sports/05horses.html?ref=todayspaper

Note: the following piece is more positive – at least it demonstrates that things are beginning to happen.....

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/05/sports/05penalties.html?ref=todayspaper

Thanks, Joe, for being the media’s A#1 leading advocate for the horses.

Good, Joe.

I called Dr. Rollins yesterday & told him that Little D has been under the weather the past few days. Sore. A little fever. Yesterday, her temp came in at 101.4 & 101.6 – even with the bute on board.

As Doc reminded me, in the case of laminitic horses, abscesses are pretty much an inherent part of the condition. Remember, Moose had any number of abscesses, even with his impression material & booties & all the wrappings. So, those abscesses don’t come from outside influences – they come from the laminitis problem itself.

And Doc’s suspicion is that Little D might have at least one of ‘em.

He’s coming out today to look at her.

Eric & I have gotten real, real good at finding & removing & healing abscesses, but we’re not gonna mess with laminitis. That’s a job for the professionals. Besides, it’ll probably take both Eric & me to help hold her up while Doc works on her & the faire Annie holds her hoof up.

Doc said we certainly did the right thing by starting her on SMZs, but thinks that probably metronidazole might be called for, too. If there’s an infection, we gotta knock it out pronto.

Man, laminitis is a horror show.

Here’s a newsflash for you....

Three new kids – four, really – are coming here next week.

There’s a woman down in Tucson who can’t keep her three any longer & they just have to stay together. The woman has some physical ailments that preclude her from caring properly for her kids.

Although I don’t know much about any of them, here’s a little of what I do know.....

SunDance (Sunny) & Katie are full siblings who have lived together their entire lives. Both are Appaloosa/T-bred crosses (?!?), with Katie being two years older (23) than Sunny (21).

Holly-Go-Lightly (Holly) is a ten year-old mustang that the woman rescued from the kill-pen several years ago. Here’s an interesting little – though not necessarily a welcome – factoid: Holly isn’t even halter-broken.

The woman said we’ll probably have to back the trailer right up to wherever Holly’s gonna live & just let her loose. Oh, man, huh?

I think the only place that fits that bill is Moosie’s old house. We can open up a length of the fencing in the back & in she can go.

My plan is to put the other two kids into the round pen & that’s probably where Holly belongs, too, but there’s no way to get a trailer over & through the wash to get to that gate.

The plan is for the kids to arrive next Thursday.

Should be interesting, to say the least.

The fourth horse scheduled to come here is Chester, a 15 year-old guy. With Cushings.

Our friend & sometime worker, Angela, keeps her horses at a facility near here.

Seems Chester’s human simply abandoned him several months ago. So he stood, friendless, throughout the heat of the summer, coat all matted & hanging his head & just waiting to die.

Angela, God love her, took pity on him & cared for him & gave him the love he needed & now she says his coat shines & he’s happy & he whinnies when she arrives.

He wants to live again.

And then the owner of the facility announced that she was taking him to the auction this Saturday (day after tomorrow). Angela pleaded with her to give her one more week to find him a home. She knows that a 15 year-old guy with Cushings isn’t going to anybody but the killerman.

Yesterday, Angela contacted me.

We’re full. We don’t need another horse. Especially one with Cushings.

I read about half of Angela’s rambling email & hit the ‘reply’ button.

“Get him over here. Now. Tell him he’s coming home for good.”

My heart trumped my head.

But I just can’t do it any other way.

Maybe this’ll give us the impetus – hell, I know it will; it has to - to put up that one or two pieces of fencing & gate to make another pen back there the other side of Miss Guess.

If we need another panel, I’ll just bite the bullet & go buy a length of temporary fencing. That’ll work. Eric can make a gate. Or something. We’ll work it out. One good thing is that neither the round pen nor the new pen will need shade structures for another few months. Silver lining! Hah!

Jesus.

Between racehorses’ connections drugging them to the point of putting them in mortal jeopardy & guys like Chester’s human simply abandoning them, America’s Herd is fighting an uphill battle, huh?

Then, along comes a wonderful woman like the three kids’ mom who sobbed uncontrollably on the phone because she’d finally found a loving home for them.

And Little D’s fighting for her life.

What are we supposed to make of all this?