And one year ago, . . .

Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

somebody else arrived.

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the day Miskwaki crossed the downed fence onto our side. I know I've posted updates about his progress, but today's the anniversary of those sickening photos Wings took to document the shape he was in. 

For those who don't remember, or who have never seen them, be sure you're ready to look at these:

Photo copyright Wings, 2013; all rights reserved.

You can't tell from the photo, but he was nearly dead. He could barely stand, and probably wouldn't have lived out the week. Until the moment shown here, I don't know when he'd last had water; certainly not for the previous week or so, and possibly much longer than that. No real food, either, for months. Cuts, scrapes, and sores. Hooves so long that he now has permanent damage (he'll be rideable again, but not yet). And none of that compares to the psychological scars he bears from the years of abuse.

Photo copyright Wings, 2013; all rights reserved.

I know I look like I'm smiling in the photo, but I'm not. I was talking to Wings when he took the shot, and the things I was saying right then don't bear repeating here. Not because I don't own every single thing I said then and more, but because it serves no purpose to revisit that stream of profanity and rage here.

Photo copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

This is what my boy looks like now.

He's so mellow, so eager to please, so happy. But he's not healed yet.

We're working on desensitization. Certain things still scare the hell out of him, chief among them being the prospect of someone riding him. When he meets people for the first time, he's still wary, and he doesn't really trust anyone except the two of us. But he's no longer head-shy (well, at least not with me), and despite his history of abuse, he's fine now with the presence of the so-called "carrot stick," as long as it's my hand that's holding it.

He's also very intuitive to my mood and responsive to my voice. If I'm upset or sad, he'll come and lean his big beautiful head against me. If I want him to do something — or, more likely, stop whatever he's doing — it usually only takes one command.

Those are huge strides in the space of a year for a horse that was beaten, starved, otherwise abused and neglected, and psychologically deeply scarred. 

Last year, when I was going through some stuff I'd rather not discuss, renzo told me to ask the "magic horse" — Miskwaki — for help. I did. And apparently, it worked. I'm still here, he's still here, and at the moment, the world looks pretty good.