had been beaten so violently by her former owner that a vet was needed to sew up her innocent face. Now, between her eyes, a diagonal scar six inches long was a reminder of that vicious attack. The fourth one had been in such a desperate state that we’d driven through a black, howling blizzard over an unplowed mountain pass to get him to our vet. Even as Curt, our dear veterinary friend, worked on him, he quietly prepared us for his death.
Years of abuse had left two of our horses with serious disfigurements. One carried a jagged ten-inch scar acrosshis shoulder. The other, a mare, bore the evidence of a nine-inch gash that twisted down her right front cannon bone, or shin, and ended in an egg-sized lump of proud flesh above the coronet band, just above the hoof. The two other horses survived incredible neglect. One, being denied the nutrition needed during her formative years, had slightly, but permanently, bucked knees.
This was our team.
Our deep pride in grooming these horses arose from their former lack. For their sheer will and courage alone, they deserved more than we could ever give them. Only after they had been thoroughly bathed, brushed, and combed, gleaming under the sun like fine polished metal, were they ready.
We led them into the prerace vet check area, where we moved like a tiny tributary into a vast river of horses. They were nearly all Arabians, exotic, athletic, proud, and bold—lean powerful horses that we couldn’t imagine had ever known a day of hunger or the threat of abuse.
Our team was quickly noticed and targeted by the usual looks—the silent comparison of our horses with theirs, an attitude that slithers its way insidiously, like a black serpent, through the milling horses and up and down each imperfect leg, over every scarred back. Some of the other competitors gestured at us, pointing and murmuring. A few attacked us openly, loudly voicing their bitter opinion of me and my equine refugees. Some were vindictive enough to say to my face that they hated me, how only horses like theirs should be allowed to race.
It could be devastating.
Thankfully, the vast majority of the time we were greeted with great kindness and warmth, particularly bythose who had lent their generous support to our equine rescue program and our limited-distance endurance team. So we reassured ourselves by concentrating on our veterinarians’ opinions, remembering the highly focused training we had put in to get this far, and reminding ourselves that scars are evidence of the trials of life, a testament to victory over adversity. We were confident that within each of our horses’ battered exteriors burned the heart of a lion.
Friday afternoon of any weekend endurance race is the major prerace vet check, which determines whether a horse is fit to race the following morning. It’s the same at every race—the horses are called from a lineup, one at a time, by a hardworking vet who checks their vital signs, hydration factors, back, girth, tendons, and hoofs. Notes are taken on every horse as a baseline for the mid and postrace checks. The last phase is a trotout, where the vet analyzes the horse’s gait. Any imbalance, no matter how slight, means the horse is not fit to continue and is immediately pulled from the race.
One after the other our horses entered the vet check area, and the members of our team quietly explained their mount’s story of survival. As always, the vets listened with compassion, making careful notes of every bump and scar on the competitor’s scorecards. Often they congratulated our young riders with hearty hugs of approval for working so hard to rehabilitate horses that might have otherwise died.
Four of our five horses had cleared the vet check. I stood and waited for Sarah as she and her “boy,” Mighty Mojave, entered the vetting area. Sarah had fallen in love with the horse when he was a yearling, living down theroad on a local ranch. She was only a little girl then, but because of
Years of abuse had left two of our horses with serious disfigurements. One carried a jagged ten-inch scar acrosshis shoulder. The other, a mare, bore the evidence of a nine-inch gash that twisted down her right front cannon bone, or shin, and ended in an egg-sized lump of proud flesh above the coronet band, just above the hoof. The two other horses survived incredible neglect. One, being denied the nutrition needed during her formative years, had slightly, but permanently, bucked knees.
This was our team.
Our deep pride in grooming these horses arose from their former lack. For their sheer will and courage alone, they deserved more than we could ever give them. Only after they had been thoroughly bathed, brushed, and combed, gleaming under the sun like fine polished metal, were they ready.
We led them into the prerace vet check area, where we moved like a tiny tributary into a vast river of horses. They were nearly all Arabians, exotic, athletic, proud, and bold—lean powerful horses that we couldn’t imagine had ever known a day of hunger or the threat of abuse.
Our team was quickly noticed and targeted by the usual looks—the silent comparison of our horses with theirs, an attitude that slithers its way insidiously, like a black serpent, through the milling horses and up and down each imperfect leg, over every scarred back. Some of the other competitors gestured at us, pointing and murmuring. A few attacked us openly, loudly voicing their bitter opinion of me and my equine refugees. Some were vindictive enough to say to my face that they hated me, how only horses like theirs should be allowed to race.
It could be devastating.
Thankfully, the vast majority of the time we were greeted with great kindness and warmth, particularly bythose who had lent their generous support to our equine rescue program and our limited-distance endurance team. So we reassured ourselves by concentrating on our veterinarians’ opinions, remembering the highly focused training we had put in to get this far, and reminding ourselves that scars are evidence of the trials of life, a testament to victory over adversity. We were confident that within each of our horses’ battered exteriors burned the heart of a lion.
Friday afternoon of any weekend endurance race is the major prerace vet check, which determines whether a horse is fit to race the following morning. It’s the same at every race—the horses are called from a lineup, one at a time, by a hardworking vet who checks their vital signs, hydration factors, back, girth, tendons, and hoofs. Notes are taken on every horse as a baseline for the mid and postrace checks. The last phase is a trotout, where the vet analyzes the horse’s gait. Any imbalance, no matter how slight, means the horse is not fit to continue and is immediately pulled from the race.
One after the other our horses entered the vet check area, and the members of our team quietly explained their mount’s story of survival. As always, the vets listened with compassion, making careful notes of every bump and scar on the competitor’s scorecards. Often they congratulated our young riders with hearty hugs of approval for working so hard to rehabilitate horses that might have otherwise died.
Four of our five horses had cleared the vet check. I stood and waited for Sarah as she and her “boy,” Mighty Mojave, entered the vetting area. Sarah had fallen in love with the horse when he was a yearling, living down theroad on a local ranch. She was only a little girl then, but because of
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