I took these today, on the one-year anniversary, almost to the very moment, of this boy's arrival on our land. Either Monday or Tuesday was the anniversary of his first appearance in the area; he had materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, on the north side of the fence. It took him until late afternoon on Christmas Eve to work up the courage to cross onto our side.
He never left.
I have no idea what his name was before, or if he ever even had one. For the last year, he's been Ice, because the slanting late-day sunlight made the white of his coat and mane look like tiny ice crystals. He responded to it immediately, although that may have been more tone of voice than the shape of the word itself.
He was starving and spooky, but he took some hay from my hand nonetheless.
That scared, skinny, bony horse never left.
Back then, he'd hang out in the field near the pens holding the other horses, but it took him a few weeks to work up the courage to go near the fence. He'd come to me, but then shy away just as quickly; like a lot of abused animals (and their human counterparts), he wouldn't look you in the eye.
That's different now.
It took weeks to start putting weight on him. It took months to get him to come into the pen, and only then when the other horses were all out grazing.
A stall? Forget about it. This Indian pony, this mustang, was not used to being fenced in, much less stalled, and he was having no part of it. He'd turn and run the other way, giving me the fish-eye.
Not anymore. Now, I walk outside, and he fixes both liquid black eyes on mine and won't look away. He comes when called — and sometimes, even when not.
He assumes he's always welcome, because he is. He knows he's home, because not only did we keep him from dying of starvation and dehydration, but when the time bomb lurking in his gut went off in May, we spent weeks, months, defusing it.
He's not supposed to be here. Sand colic. A case that had been developing over Spirit only knows how many of his twelve to fifteen years of life. A minimum of 75 to 80 pounds, rock-hard, thoroughly impacted over a period of years, a compromised bowel. When it finally manifested, thanks to getting real nutrition and the proper amount of food for probably the first time in his life, it was almost too late.
The vet said he might not make it. She made clear to me privately that what she meant was that he most likely wouldn't. He shouldn't even have been alive then, she said. Initially, she called him the third-worst case of sand colic she'd ever seen in her career — and the first two, she made clear, didn't make it. A day later, she upgraded him to second-worst. She prepped us for the worst.
Then his guardian angel stepped in and gave us a hand. Two rounds of intravenous lactated ringers later — with him hooked up to the monstrous contraption in the stall, and me out in the middle of a howling rainstorm at four in the morning to change hook-ups so there would be no risk of air in the line — and several tubings and endless walking and doses of Banamine and other treatments later, and his body began to do what we all needed it to do. It took a couple of weeks, and even then — hell, even months later — he still wasn't out of the woods.
And so he gets to graze every day. He gets a grain mixture containing multiple specific supplements every day. He may get both for the rest of his life.
He still doesn't like anything near his mouth. It made syringing him . . . interesting, as in Chinese-curse interesting, during the first months of treating the sand colic. We found a way around it, involving a hitching post and a halter and a lead wrapped multiple times around the post with me cranking on the end of it with every muscle in my body while Wings jammed the syringe in to get the meds into his system. It meant a setback in his recovery from the PTSD that was so clearly ingrained, of course. And he'll still turn his head if you get too near his mouth.
But now, he'll come up and stick his face in mine.
He's a nosy butt, after all. You never know; that camera I'm holding might actually have some grain in it. Maybe even molasses. I mean, clearly, it's there just for him.
And this is why, tonight, the camera has horse drool on it.
He's been here a whole year now, so it seems safe to say it: His name is Ice, and he is home.
All photos copyright Aji, 2014; all rights reserved.
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