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Non-Fiction
Published Jan., 1993, (without permission) by Horseman's Yankee Pedlar Newsletter
Published Feb., 1993, (without permission) by The Western Horse
Posted (without permission) by the University of Wisconsin
2868 Words Exactly



        Horses come and go through a person's life. Some of them we 
like, some we don't. Some are just casual acquaintances. Some are 
good friends. It's hard to sell some horses. It's easy to see 
others go. And then there are some crazy equines.....who take a 
piece of us with them. 
        I've known two such animals in my life. One was a half 
blind, nerdy looking albino that I bought from the Utes in 
Southwestern Colorado. I was standing in a stock yard one day 
near Farmington, New Mexico, just browsing through the pens. A 
stock trailer, already nearly full, pulled into the yard to pick 
up a couple more horses for the killers. I strolled over and took 
a look inside.
        There were the usual misfits, the mostly starved, half dead 
ponies off the reservations, the mean broncos that no one wanted, 
the hopelessly lame horses, the few who were unfortunate enough 
to be too ugly or too rough gaited to find a permanent home. 
There were the ancient beasts with two feet in the grave already. 
They all milled about the trailer engaging in little scuffles or 
just trying to find a place to be left alone. It was a sad sight. 
I found myself wondering if any of them knew. Could they sense 
they were sentenced to die? 
        My gaze moved around the trailer until it settled on one 
particular animal. He was off in the corner by himself, a bag of 
bones, a homely albino with a great, bony, dinosaur head, a long, 
too-slender reptilian neck, and a conformation that looked like a 
four year old's first attempt at finger paints. His pink eyelids 
were scorched and grossly sunburned, raw and bleeding and oozing 
pus from the flies and infection. His white wall-eyes reflected 
back only a broken spirit. His great, pink, hairless nose was 
cracked and swollen from a lifetime on the range with no 
protection from the sun. His feet were split and broken; his hide 
was scarred and cut and torn and bleeding. The horse looked to be 
a hundred years old. 
        He stood stock still in that sweltering trailer, not even 
bothering to swat the flies off his butt with his raggedy tail. 
Horses moved around him, jockeying for more space of their own, 
bumping him, jostling him-- yet he never looked up, never moved, 
never shuffled a foot. His head hung all the way to the floor; 
his eyes were half open, seeing, but not caring. And it suddenly 
hit me that this horse knew. He knew what awaited him a few 
hundred miles to the south at the dog food plant. He knew and he 
didn't care. In fact, I believe, he welcomed it. His soul had 
already crossed over. He was merely trying to endure what few 
remaining indignities awaited him in this life until his body 
could follow. 
        I looked at this horse for five minutes. He didn't look 
back-- but it seemed as though our hearts were connected in that 
brief time. I had all the horses I could use back at the ranch. 
Good animals, too. Strong and sound and useful. Only a few weeks 
before, I had shipped my own rejects off to the killers...... 
        Presently the driver completed his business with the yard 
owner, and came back to the truck, clipboard in hand, anxious to 
be on his way. He swung up into the cab and I felt a little 
panicky. What was the matter with me? What was I feeling? The 
diesel roared to life and all the horses jumped a little at the 
new sound. All except the albino. He never even swished his tail. 
He almost seemed to be softly crying. 
        The air brakes released, and I felt the driver fish for a 
gear. I knew it was now or never. 
        I paid five hundred and fifty dollars for that horse. The 
driver was peeved at the inconvenience of having to extract him 
from the restless herd in the trailer. But he would have only 
gotten a hundred and fifty bucks for that skinny old bronc at the 
plant. 
        I was to learn that the Indian who'd rounded up that albino 
had taken a special liking to him, and named him Silver. The 
Indian preferred to be called the Lone Ranger, so it was, I 
suppose, a fitting selection. 
        I loaded Silver in my own trailer and packed him off to the 
ranch. He stood still in the pen for a week before he realized 
that something had intercepted and redirected his gruesome fate. 
Then he began to eat. 
        In six months Silver filled out a striking physique, strong 
and muscular and imposing. He showed us that he was a calm and 
kind and intelligent beast. And willing. 
        I broke him while he was still weak, and trained him as he 
gained a foothold on life. I taught him to lay down on cue, to 
bow, to give hugs, to spin and to obey voice commands while my 
hammy German Shepherd (Fi-Fi) rode on his back. Silver learned to 
rear like his namesake, as well as all sorts of other meaningless 
tricks. He was as fast as the wind, and I swear, with every 
passing month, he got younger. He was fearless and stout; he 
carried me for days on end in the back country, and even though 
he was nearly blind he never faltered on the rough trails, always 
trusting my every cue and suggestion. 
        Silver came to be known as "Silver the Wonder Horse". I 
jokingly told friends that I wondered why I fed him. Privately, I 
wondered how I could live without him. 
        I coated his great, bulbous nose with white zinc oxide every 
time he went out in the sun, and I smeared a thick coat onto his 
pink eyelids, as well, which looked strangely like too much 
mascara on a Halloween monster, but it kept him from sun burning. 
        My mind is full of sweet memories of the open ranges, the 
deserts, the lush northern forests and the high central 
mountains, afork old Silver. 
        I remember the time he came upon a huge mountain rattler in 
north central Washington state. A pack string was behind us-- a 
five hundred foot cliff to our left and a rock wall to the right. 
I figured we were in for a wreck. But despite my insistence that 
he not do so, old Silver put his head down to say hello to that 
snake. The snake raised his head to see what manner of foolish 
creature this was-- and they gently touched noses. Having been 
greeted so amiably, the snake slithered harmlessly away, and we 
continued down the trail. 
        I remember all the little kids who got their first ride on 
old Silver when he and I worked at a dude ranch in Nevada. And 
all the city folks he dazzled with his tricks. 
        I remember the time Silver helped me proof-read the first 
draft of "The Dog Repair Book" by candlelight for a friend, while 
camping in the great north woods. (He even earned honorable 
mention in the preface). 
        I recollect the fun he and I had when we camped for five 
months near the Mogollon Rim in Arizona-- all the fine (and not 
so fine) people we met, and the good times we had. Old Silver 
never needed hobbles at night, but would graze around the 
campfire and listen to the cowboys sing. One evening he got to 
rooting in the hot dog buns and caught his tail ablaze in the 
campfire when no one was looking. He stood right there, just 
wondering what thet smell was-- and we got him put out in short 
order, with only that raggedy tail being any worse for the wear. 
        I remember the first bear he saw in Oregon. From then on he 
never trusted any dark colored stump. 
        I remember when he learned to knock on the door of my little 
house in New Mexico. He had the run of the grounds. I would open 
the door, give him a treat, and he'd saunter smugly away. A 
minute later he'd be back, pounding on that door again with his 
great beastly snout. He thought that was the greatest trick he 
had ever learned. 
        And I remember cooking dinner one hot afternoon in that same 
house, and looking up from the kitchen stove to see him finishing 
off the last of the tossed green salad on the counter. A back 
door had been left open, and he'd just silently helped himself. 
He clomped through the house and jumped clear over my bed when I 
yelled at him. Five minutes later he came and thumped on my front 
door again, to see if we were still friends. 
        I think of the rustlers Silver helped me chase in South 
Dakota, and of the ghost towns we explored in central Utah, and 
of the poachers who tried to draw down on us in the Idaho 
Panhandle. Silver stood still for me until we got that situation 
sorted out. For that alone I probably owe him my life.
        I think of little Bubba, the orphaned stud colt he adopted 
in Colorado. I never knew Silver had so much mare blood in him. 
        I remember the time we saw a young girl fall off her horse 
and lay motionless in the Texas desert, a quarter of a mile away. 
We had a river to cross to get to her, and old Silver hit the 
water at a dead gallop. He fell into a deep hole though, and went 
end over end. All my camp gear, heavy saddle and rifle dragged 
him down and we ended up on the bottom of the river, upside down, 
with the saddle horn jamming me into the mud. I stayed right in 
the saddle, thinking Silver would get himself right-side up and 
we could swim out of it. But he'd been knocked out. I waited and 
waited, my breath getting short. Finally I began pounding on his 
neck, so deep in that black, swirling muck. That brought him 
around. He scrambled upright again and pulled me to shore, 
gagging and coughing all the way. Then he carried me and the girl 
to help. 
        Silver was more than my friend. He was part of my blood, 
connected to my soul. He never wanted to leave me. And I never 
thought that he would.
        The years passed and Silver aged. By and by he was too old 
for me to ride-- not the kind of miles that I needed to put on. I 
bought new and stronger horses, and Silver went out to pasture. 
One day I decided to sell him. I felt a little guilt at the 
decision, but figured I'd get over it. I loaded him up and took 
him to the auction. I priced him higher than the killers would 
pay, so there was no danger of him suffering that fate again. And 
for the prospective buyers I typed out a long list of his tricks, 
and how to cue him, what he liked and didn't like, what he would 
tolerate, and what he wouldn't. And the fact that I loved him. I 
thought it important for a new owner to know that this horse had 
been loved.
        I rode him through the auction and showed him off. He drew a 
high bidder, a dude ranch owner who wanted a quiet old trick 
horse to impress the suburban kids. I was happy with that. I led 
Silver out through the cross-pens and put him in a stall, and 
stripped my saddle off, and told him good bye. He just stood 
there, acting as if he didn't comprehend a thing. You know the 
way horses do. 
        I got a little teary-eyed for a second, but then caught 
myself-- It was only a horse, after all. 
        I saw the new owners heading my way and didn't want to talk 
to them just then. I opened the gate and slipped through, 
thinking that was the end of it. But as I turned around to latch 
the gate behind me I locked eyes with Silver across the stall. 
And in that one instant, I again knew that he knew. His eyes grew 
wide and I saw the instant apprehension in his face. He knew I 
was leaving. He knew he would never see me again. And he bolted 
for the gate. He had never done that in all his life, yet he now 
became as a crazy horse. 
        He was halfway through the gate before I could close it. I 
dropped my saddle and gear and tried to push him back through and 
into the stall. But he would have none of it. He whinnied and 
stared at me wild eyed, shocked and betrayed. He gave me hug 
after heart rending hug while I struggled to push him back 
through the gate. He wanted only to please me, to do something he 
had been rewarded for doing in the past. He wanted me to like him 
again. He nickered and reared and shook his head and pushed on 
that gate. I couldn't stand it.
        The new owners showed up about then, just as I was finally 
able to force the gate closed. They couldn't believe what they 
saw. I latched the gate and Silver reared and put his front legs 
over it, trying to get to me. He extended his head to me, trying 
to give me more hugs, whinnying wildly. A teenage girl, the 
daughter of the new owners, cried openly. Tears ran from my eyes. 
I couldn't speak. I picked up my saddle and walked away, refusing 
to answer the voices behind me. 
        From the far side of the pens I got up the nerve to look 
back. The new owners were not in sight. Old Silver stood in the 
far corner of his stall, head on the ground, eyes half closed, 
not moving, not bothering to swish his tail at the flies. I 
looked at him for several minutes, and once he started to raise 
his head. He knew where I was. But before he looked fully at me 
his head slumped back down to the ground. He saw no point in 
expending the energy. 
        He seemed to shrink before my eyes; his frame sagged and his 
will to live slipped out of him and drifted away on the wind. I 
walked away. 
        I heard that Silver led a good and peaceful life with his 
new owners. But I don't really know, as I could never bear to go 
and see him. Sometimes I see an ad in the paper that sounds like 
it might be Silver. I think of calling them up. But I never do. I 
can't.
        I've done a lot of soul searching since then, trying to 
figure out just what our relationship is with these animals, and 
what our responsibilities and moral obligations are. I've come to 
the conclusion that the life and soul of a horse is at least as 
valuable and important as that of a human being. Our friendship 
with them and love for them can be just as real and whole and 
tangible and meaningful. As a horseman raised in the "old school" 
of ranching, where horses were just a tool, I never used to 
believe that. Now I know I was wrong. 
        I believe that we make a deal with our animals. We don't 
need to speak it out loud or write it down, but our Karmic Selves 
enter into an agreement with a less evolved soul the moment we 
take responsibility for it. The deal is that we agree to provide 
the best home and care we possibly can for an animal. In return, 
our horse agrees to pack us around to the best of his ability. 
        Does that responsibility extend for the life of the animal? 
I'm not sure. Did I break my unspoken bargain with Silver by 
selling him? My common sense and logic and reason tells me no. I 
did the best I could for him in the years that I knew him. But he 
was my friend, and I had never sold a friend before. My heart 
tells me that I am a despicable human being, and that I should be 
whipped for selling Silver into an environment which I had no 
control over and from which I could not protect him or save him 
if it turned out to be a bad life. My heart tells me that I sold 
him out. And that I should never be forgiven. 
        Which way of thinking is correct? It's something that each 
person must come to terms with on his or her own. It's something 
that no one can solve or answer for you. 
        And if you cared --I mean truly loved a horse-- it's 
something you'll wonder about the rest of your life.