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Welcome
Our dear old palmomino horse, Sun, died in April. After coming to us three years ago, starved nearly to death, I promised him two things: he would never be hungry again and he would die in my arms. I was able to keep both those promises. We determined he was over 30 years old. I am thankful to have known him and was able to grant him peace, love, and comfort in the last years of his life.
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Moon Shadow |
We
have finally gotten Moon gelded! Believe me, we were all ready
for that! It's amazing how much a stallion's personality changes
after such a simple operation.
We were given three little, white kittens! I can't believe
how much we all love kittens. They get more attention than
the horses. The girls who volunteer spend hours with them.
I'll bet they took over 100 pictures!
The money thing: As always, we need your help. Our unpaid vet bills are over $1000. We had two cases of colic and two horses died. As always, our expenses are great. Horses must be fed and bills must be paid. We cannot continue this work without you. All donations go directly to the horses. No one receives a salary at Eye of the Storm.
Thank you so much!!!
Nina
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Noogie |
Noogie
Never again will I feel the soft, sloppy kisses of my son, Noogie. Not in this system, anyway. My beloved one of 17 years died. After 24 hours of colic on the second coldest night of the year, my silly, goofy precious Arab gelding left me behind. I’ve had him since he was three months old. I was truly his mother. In all those years I cared for him every single day of his life.
He had a rare muscle disorder. It was genetic and incurable. The term used was “myotonic.” I could find very little information about this disorder except that these horses were usually euthanized by the age of two years as they are unrideable and valueless. There are different degrees of pain: some can barely move, some drag the hind feet until the toes are squared off, some just look odd in their movements. Noogie had some days that he didn’t feel so well, but most of the time he was pretty good, got around well, and spent all his life with alpha-mare Fancy who kept him moving, and probably prolonged his life.
He never “told” me his real name. Noogie was just a nickname. It really did fit him as he was the funniest horse I’ve ever known. He was also the smartest. I would talk to him and he would always give me that “all the lights are on” look and understood everything I said.
His whole life was a game that he played with gusto. He was always up to something: twanging the electric fence and saying “See, it’s not on!” or training people to back out of his space. If they did, he never respected them again. If they didn’t, they were allowed to be his friend. He taught himself to stick his tongue out and hold it there because it made us laugh. That was his cue to do more goofy things.
I thought I did all the right things for him. There was absolutely no clue that he was ill except that for the first time I was able to see his ribs. Not much, just a little. Maybe it was the myotonic disorder, maybe not. I just don’t know, but he was one of the last that I would have expected to die. After a long, horrible night of IV fluids, pain medication that didn’t help, and a second belly tap that was full of blood, I knew we could not save him.
He stood calmly and looked into my eyes. I saw light and beauty, vast intelligence and acceptance, and I saw peace. My beautiful boy. I saw wisdom and a dignity that I had not seen in him before. All silliness was gone. I think he was very sad to have to go. I think he might have said, “Thank you.”
Many of his friends were there. They all hugged him and said goodbye. We were all sobbing. He touched so many lives.
And so, my precious son received the last gift I could give him - a peaceful end - and he died in my arms.
Dr. Landry, his first vet, said that I stood between Noogie and the abyss, that without me there to save him, he would have killed himself because of the suicidal things he used to do. This time I couldn’t save him. This time he was pushed from behind and I couldn’t step in front of him. This time he is gone. I am so sad.
I know now that I stand between all of them and the abyss. Every last one of them would be dead if I were not standing before them, keeping it at bay. I am no hero. I only love them more than I love myself. I only need a warm place to sleep, clothing according to the weather conditions, a way to stay reasonably clean, and food. Nothing else matters to me. Perhaps my love for them is some kind of strange psychological disorder that is obsessive to the extreme. Who knows. I only know that only Jehovah himself is more important to me than my horses.
One by one I will have to let them go. Each day that passes I will celebrate their lives and the time we share together. On the last day of each one’s life I will hold them in my arms. I will sob on their faces. I will bury their spiritless bodies and give them back to the earth. One by one I will always be there for them, unless I die first. That is my vow.
As I stand at the edge of the abyss, I protect them from each other and from themselves. I fill their physical needs and give them comfort and love. I give them my heart. I give them my spirit. How, though, can I protect them from the awful things that creep in and steal them from me? How can I fight colic? Old age? Czardis’ canker? Snow’s laminitis? How can I hold those things at bay? How can I stand before them? Sometimes I am tired. Sometimes I am afraid. Sometimes I am so sad.
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Noogie & Fancy
Photo taken by Aimee McMaster of Kerrington Studios
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In The Elevator
After visiting my dad in the hospital, I was sharing the elevator with a man and a woman in uniform, two nurses, and a young black woman who lay unconscious on a gurney. I have absolutely no sense of direction or knowledge of anything technical or electronic. After pressing the wrong buttons, opening the wrong door, and ending up on the wrong floor, I met up with the above mentioned group. They set me on the path to the main entrance.
We stood in silence. I probably looked like a bag lady to them as I had just come from the barn. I was wearing dirty, muddy sneakers, jeans, a fleece jacket, and a hat covered with barn stuff and horse slobber. As I looked at the sleeping woman, I first noticed how beautiful she was. Her skin was silky smooth, the color of creamy coffee ice cream. Her hair was red, uncombed, and wild. Her face, relaxed in sleep, was innocent and at peace. She was curled in a fetal position and a bag containing something pink and flannel, soft with the innocence of a child, lay at her feet. Her sweet, soft plump hand was covered with tiny tight stitches where it lay on a pillow by her face.
I looked at the man in uniform (I thought he was an EMT) and said, “Wow, that’s gonna hurt when she wakes up.” No response. It was then that I read the patch on his arm. She came from the woman’s correctional facility. This sweet, beautiful young thing was a prisoner. As they rolled her from the elevator I saw that she was handcuffed to the gurney. I noticed the cuffs were shiny, stainless steel. I wanted to reach out and touch her, to tell her everything would be alright. Had I even been allowed to do that much, how could I make such a promise? Waking her from sleep, probably the only peace she’s known for a long time, would have been an act of cruelty. And so I did the only thing within my power to do for her. I said a prayer for her and walked away. I left her in God’s hands. Only he can fix things. Maybe that’s all she needed, someone to pray for her. I shall continue to do so.
What, I wonder, brought her to this? A friend used to visit these women. She said, except for a few scary, violent ones, they were just a sad bunch who finally could take no more abuse from lovers or husbands and killed them to keep from being murdered themselves, or to protect their children. Some are drug addicts or prostitutes, desperate to survive. Some would never be free again.
As I think of that girl now, I realize that might have been me. I was very much lost for most of my life. I walked in the darkness. I had no direction, no purpose, no future. And there, but for the grace of God, go I. If I didn’t learn about Jehovah, I’d be dead.
I don’t know a single thing about this girl or what led up to this moment in the elevator. I only know she was born innocent, but her path had led her into darkness and despair. Her hand looked like it was slashed with a knife. Was she defending herself, or was she the attacker? I just don’t know. All I know is that these times have taken a terrible toll on innocence.
I will always remember her sweet face relaxed in sleep, for I can see that the innocence is still there, in that soft hiding place of dreams.
Nina
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