You Came For Her


In loving memory of Silent Confidence

I swear I saw you.

I was looking out of the window that gives me the best view of the back pasture. It’s the perfect place to watch the sunrise. It’s also the perfect place to check on the horses, donkeys, sheep, and mule that share our home.

As my eyes scanned the pasture, I saw a horse in an adjacent pasture where no horses live. He was standing at the edge of the pond, getting a drink in the misty light of dawn. My first thought was that one of the neighbor’s horses must have strayed from his pasture. I quickly glanced at my own horses to be sure the headcount was right and then I looked immediately back to the spot by the pond, but the horse was gone. Just a vision lost in the early morning fog.

A vision, but one that stayed so very clear in my mind’s eye. As I studied my mental picture of the horse, something familiar emerged, and I knew. It was you. My dear Scout, the horse born of childhood dreams. Gone now for what? Two years? Three years?  My heart can’t bear to keep count.

I committed the image to memory and moved into my day. Grateful for perhaps a little visit from a friend I miss more than I can begin to explain.

I think you have come here a few times before; times when I have needed you. The dogs charging out to bark along the fence at absolutely nothing. Was that you? The wind ruffling the back of my sweatshirt just as you used to do when you were in a playful mood. I feel sure that was you.

But this time, you didn’t come to see me, did you. You came for her.

The dear old mare, retired from her days of streaking around the track in colorful silks with a roaring crowd spurring her on. A true black beauty, allowed to live here in her golden years, to do a new sort of job raising not just one, but three sweet young foals who were not her own, but youngsters she took under her tutelage, teaching lessons that only a wise old mare can teach.

IMG_0653 (2)She raised you, didn’t she dear boy? With her patient ways that knew when to let a nosy little weanling push his way into her feed bucket, but also knew when that nosy little boy needed a nip on the neck or a quick, restrained pop from a back foot.

Even when you grew to tower over the old mare, you respected her. You still looked up to her in a figurative sense. You needed her guidance. You needed her to nuzzle your mane in reassurance.

And now, she needed you, so you came for her.

Silent stretched out in the middle of her pasture. Her long legs not willing to gather up to bear her weight again. Her giant heart heavy from decades of life.

Yes, she needed you. You came to wait for her. I saw you there. And when she called to you, you answered. You showed her the way to the wide open pastures where she could be reborn, where she could once again have the strength to do what she most loved—stretch out her legs, grab the earth with her hooves, and race the wind.

I can see the two of you racing together, the one who left far too soon running alongside the one who stayed for so very long. I think you allowed the black mare to win by just a nose.

Scout and Bob

Scout. The horse born of a little, horse-crazy girl’s dreams. Gone too, too soon.

Thank you dear boy.  You have guided your old friend to the path of healing and light.  At the same time, maybe you have allowed my heart to begin to heal just a little bit as well.


Silent’s Vigil

Silent's Vigil

The donkeys are standing very still—all together in a line, all staring at the same something.

If I have learned anything from living with donkeys, horses, and one fine mule it’s that you should always look in the same direction as your herd animals are looking. If all eyes and pointy ears are riveted and locked in one direction, there is always something to see.


They may show you deer. They may show you coyotes. They may show you a random plastic bag blowing across the field. In one instance they pointed out a young orange-clad hunter that had come onto our property “by accident.”

Today they are showing me our mare, Silent. Silent Confidence, as she is formally known, is a tall, willowy, black thoroughbred. She is a retired racehorse that boards with us. Her owner keeps Silent in memory of her late husband, who had cherished the horse, his dream horse.

Silent was injured in her last race. A tendon damaged in one of her delicate front legs forced her into an early retirement. She went on to have two foals, both used as pleasure mounts.

Then her owner, the man who lived the dream of owning his own Black Beauty, passed away. For a time the mare was left in the hands of people at a racing stable. There she may not have technically been abused, but she was certainly not leading a life of comfortable retirement and the woman who had inherited responsibility for the mare recognized that.

Silent hated being in a stall. She would pace from side-to-side. She would weave back and forth in frustration. She refused to eat her full ration of grain and hay. Basically, she was miserable.

A common friend knew I had a large pasture that was home to a few horses and donkeys, so she mentioned the plight of the beautiful mare to me. Her owner could not afford to pay much in board, but truly wanted to find a place where the horse could just enjoy life.

Having already provided a haven for a few other “useless” animals, it didn’t take much for us to agree to give Silent a home. It didn’t really matter to us that she couldn’t be ridden. It was enough to look out into the pasture to see the shiny black mare frolicking and stretching her legs across our gently rolling acres.

Now, we fast-forward more than a decade. Silent is a senior citizen horse of more than 30 years. Her black shiny coat is salted with a good deal of gray now. Her tall body has lost its tone and bones protrude where muscles once rippled tightly beneath her skin.

Every winter we wonder if it will be her last. We blanket her, we feed her a special diet that is easy for old teeth and systems to process. We provide shelter, though never, never inside a stall in the barn. No, Silent still can’t tolerate confinement after her years on the track.

So Silent lives in the small pasture behind our house with a loafing shed for cover and our mismatched herd of miniature donkeys, a miniature horse, one sheep, and our young orphaned filly for company.

Today, all eyes and ears are focused on Silent. The donkeys, filly, mini horse and sheep stand at attention, a respectful distance from the grand old lady who is lying in the middle of her pasture, embraced in beams of gentle morning sun. Even my big horses are perfectly still in the back pasture, focused on the old mare. Everyone is watching. Everyone is waiting. I am watching and waiting too.

Silent is lying on her left side. Her graceful neck is curved around to allow her graying muzzle to rest on her front legs. Her back legs are pulled in to meet her front legs against her belly. Everything about her posture is almost fetal, as if she is curling into herself.

I hold my breath for a moment as I watch, joining my animals in this delicate early morning vigil. Is she in distress? Is she “down,” or just sunbathing? I think in this moment my animals and I share the same images, the same concern. We all, animals and humans alike, recognize that Silent’s time with us is limited. The years are catching up with her. It’s just a matter of time.

Slowly, deliberately our precious paint filly walks quietly over to the old mare, the horse that stepped in to mother her when she lost her own mother just a few weeks after her birth. The filly sniffs the old mare’s neck and softly nuzzles her mane.

Silent raises her head to return the attention offered by the younger horse. Then, with a big stretch of her front legs, she pulls herself up, heaves a big sigh and shakes her whole body as if she were a dog coming out of a pond.

1 4 14 donksIn an instant, every member of our herd resumes normal activity. The big horses head out to graze in the east pasture. Silent’s little crew wanders to the big round bale of hay for a bit of breakfast. And with a relieved and grateful heart, I head off to feed the dogs.

We will have another day to enjoy Silent’s grace. Perhaps another week with Silent. Hopefully another month, or even year. Whatever the amount of time, we’ll all treasure it. Then, when the time comes for Silent to leave our herd, we’ll help her do that with respect, with love, and with an honor guard of wise eyes and sensitive ears giving her a final, fitting salute.