This is one of the hard parts about loving horses--the fact that other people don't.
A friend called last week to ask if I would consider rescuing a yearling Thoroughbred. He'd been brought down to North Carolina from Kentucky, where he was being starved, along with a number of breeding mares. I don't know why the owner decided not to feed these horses or if he's been prosecuted. I do believe he will suffer in the afterlife.
I went to see the yearling, and he's beautiful. He's going to be a big, handsome bay, and he'll make someone a fantastic hunter/jumper one day. I wish that someone could be me.
But I came home that afternoon and my dogs escaped again, which meant more driving, searching, worrying. Fortunately, I'd passed out flyers in the area they wandered to, so I got them back within four hours. My electric fence wasn't functioning, because I hadn't had time to get it all hooked up. Suzette is still stall-bound, needing daily walks and serious cleaning in her stall. TBone needs to be driven and ridden. Abby should get some exercise. The drafts, Joy and Lucy, now have a harness they should be getting used to. Five dogs to feed and keep track of. Fall vegetable planting, pasture fertilizing and seeding, leaf raking...oh, and did someone mention house cleaning? What a silly idea.
My husband asked me that evening, "Do you want to do anything in your life besides work with horses?"
The answer is yes. I love my horses, taking care of them and being able to work with them. But my "job", as I see it, is writing. That's how I earn the money to feed the horses. Some of it, anyway. More important, writing is my purpose, my reason to exist.
So I have to admit that I've reached the limit of my horse capacity. I can't do any more, even to rescue this sweet little boy. I'm putting the word out to other horse lovers, hoping for someone in the community to step up and claim him. It's a very hard decision, because I could love him.
At least I stopped myself from giving him a name. It would have been so easy.
All the best,