him, she sought employment on the ranch as a groom. He was so small for his age that his exotic gray face seemed too diminutive to support such incredibly large dark eyes. He and Sarah’s young hearts were soon inseparable.
Then the season of lack struck. His infant body could not bear the lean rations, and his weight began to plummet. Sarah watched helplessly through the fence as he slipped closer toward the gnawing jaws of starvation. As often as she dared, she slipped her young soul mate food and water and spent many frozen winter hours stroking his beautiful face, whispering comfort to his hungry heart.
Winter gave way to the resilient power of spring, and that same life-giving force took hold of Sarah’s heart. Like tender shoots of grass pushing through a sidewalk, she resolved with all the strength of an eleven-year-old to do whatever it took to rescue her boy. So began for her an entire year of mucking out stalls and paddocks, bathing, grooming, riding, feeding, and the myriad of other chores on a large breeding ranch. She did it all for a year … for free. Her only payment at the end would be the little runt of a gray colt.
Sarah and Mojave grew up together in the unmatched harmony so common between a girl and a horse. Through the long summer afternoons when she hung on his back or napped by him in the pasture, he flourished in the radiant shelter of her love. She started training him alone without a buck or a hitch, riding him gently to gradually build up his fledgling strength. The once-emaciated waif was gone. In his place stood a powerful fifteen-hand silver horse. His head was still uniquely Arab; his expressive eyeswere still the largest I had ever seen, but they were different. Instead of being overcast brown pools reflecting hollow uncertainty, now they reflected only her. She was his life, from beginning to end. All of his focus and affection was finely tuned to a single point. He saw only her. I was certain that for Sarah, this magnificent horse, without hesitation, would run through fire.
She saved him. Now, in her uncertain teenage years, he was saving her. When Sarah entered the vetting area, she handled her horse with casual confidence. He was an extension of her. Sarah and the vet talked easily. The local vet remembered this horse and his remarkable story. The scorecard slowly filled with A’s. Now would come the routine trot out. I glanced at my watch and looked up. My jaw dropped, and I stared in disbelief.
It was nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable—a tiny rhythmic bob of Mojave’s beautiful head. I watched, holding my breath, as he was rechecked and trotted out again. The minute rise and fall of his head persisted—a clear indication that something was wrong.
My stomach twisted into a sick knot. I had a strong professional background in sports physiology, and I trained our horses the way I trained athletes. Our team’s training was consistent, progressive, and precise, and included speed, distance, and incline components. Consequently, our horses had little, if any, incidence of injury. Only days before, Mojave had been a virtual distance-devouring machine.
What had happened?
I could only watch with a deflated heart as Sarah’s scorecard was handed back to the attending vet and Mojave was pulled from the race lineup. The vet reassuredSarah that the lameness was mild enough that the horse might possibly return to soundness within the afternoon. He encouraged her to bring Mojave back for a recheck later in the evening. Even so, Sarah rejoined the team with enormously sad eyes set within a very pale face.
I knew she was thinking of her parents, making the long journey just to watch her race. Would it be for nothing? She didn’t want to disappoint them, but her silent demeanor on the way back to our camp showed that she felt she already had.
Once again, Sarah and I worked side by side. Together, we wrapped Mojave’s lame leg with what little ice we had. When that had melted, we
Then the season of lack struck. His infant body could not bear the lean rations, and his weight began to plummet. Sarah watched helplessly through the fence as he slipped closer toward the gnawing jaws of starvation. As often as she dared, she slipped her young soul mate food and water and spent many frozen winter hours stroking his beautiful face, whispering comfort to his hungry heart.
Winter gave way to the resilient power of spring, and that same life-giving force took hold of Sarah’s heart. Like tender shoots of grass pushing through a sidewalk, she resolved with all the strength of an eleven-year-old to do whatever it took to rescue her boy. So began for her an entire year of mucking out stalls and paddocks, bathing, grooming, riding, feeding, and the myriad of other chores on a large breeding ranch. She did it all for a year … for free. Her only payment at the end would be the little runt of a gray colt.
Sarah and Mojave grew up together in the unmatched harmony so common between a girl and a horse. Through the long summer afternoons when she hung on his back or napped by him in the pasture, he flourished in the radiant shelter of her love. She started training him alone without a buck or a hitch, riding him gently to gradually build up his fledgling strength. The once-emaciated waif was gone. In his place stood a powerful fifteen-hand silver horse. His head was still uniquely Arab; his expressive eyeswere still the largest I had ever seen, but they were different. Instead of being overcast brown pools reflecting hollow uncertainty, now they reflected only her. She was his life, from beginning to end. All of his focus and affection was finely tuned to a single point. He saw only her. I was certain that for Sarah, this magnificent horse, without hesitation, would run through fire.
She saved him. Now, in her uncertain teenage years, he was saving her. When Sarah entered the vetting area, she handled her horse with casual confidence. He was an extension of her. Sarah and the vet talked easily. The local vet remembered this horse and his remarkable story. The scorecard slowly filled with A’s. Now would come the routine trot out. I glanced at my watch and looked up. My jaw dropped, and I stared in disbelief.
It was nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable—a tiny rhythmic bob of Mojave’s beautiful head. I watched, holding my breath, as he was rechecked and trotted out again. The minute rise and fall of his head persisted—a clear indication that something was wrong.
My stomach twisted into a sick knot. I had a strong professional background in sports physiology, and I trained our horses the way I trained athletes. Our team’s training was consistent, progressive, and precise, and included speed, distance, and incline components. Consequently, our horses had little, if any, incidence of injury. Only days before, Mojave had been a virtual distance-devouring machine.
What had happened?
I could only watch with a deflated heart as Sarah’s scorecard was handed back to the attending vet and Mojave was pulled from the race lineup. The vet reassuredSarah that the lameness was mild enough that the horse might possibly return to soundness within the afternoon. He encouraged her to bring Mojave back for a recheck later in the evening. Even so, Sarah rejoined the team with enormously sad eyes set within a very pale face.
I knew she was thinking of her parents, making the long journey just to watch her race. Would it be for nothing? She didn’t want to disappoint them, but her silent demeanor on the way back to our camp showed that she felt she already had.
Once again, Sarah and I worked side by side. Together, we wrapped Mojave’s lame leg with what little ice we had. When that had melted, we
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