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BRA T-MAX AZEEM, June 2, 1999 to May 23, 2001
Sometimes a special being comes in to your life. Sometimes it has four legs.
T-Max Azeem was the first foal of my new horse farm, BayRab Acres. He was sired by a local Thoroughbred stallion and was born of my Arabian mare. Max had the heart of a Thoroughbred, with the blood of famous racing sires coursing through his veins. Max’s color was black-bay like his sire, a rich, dark walnut color. He was big and strong from day one.
As a foal, he loved to play "king of the hay bale," climbing to the top of a round bale and then down the other side. When that got too easy, he would jump the bales. He had a penchant for jumping fences, too.
Max tested authority, but he had a loving nature, too. He always was the first at the gate, first to come running in from the pasture, first for attention and food. He was the pasture clown. He’d hide the feed tubs. He’d roll 55-gallon barrels around the pasture for fun. He learned to "shake hands," and would do it often. He also liked to lick hands for comfort and as his way of saying "I like you."
Max was a challenge. He tested our horsemanship and medical skills. His spirited, curious nature got him into trouble often. He made sure our accounts at area veterinary clinics were never at zero. Like a bright child, we had to keep him occupied.
He had the potential to be a star, with his athletic ability, size, good looks and keen mind. I wanted to keep him, but knew that he would be a lot of horse to train and ride. I hemmed and hawed about selling him. He was admired and considered by some top equestrians in the sports of endurance and eventing.
I had decided that I couldn’t part with this animal when a woman from Texas found out about him and begged me to sell him. She convinced me that Max would have a good home with someone who would appreciate his playful and sensitive nature.
Our hopes and dreams came crashing to an end on May 23, when a commercial shipper arrived to haul Max to his new home. As the driver handled him, Max spooked and got away. When we caught up with Max, we were horrified to see that his left rear leg was shattered and dangling, hanging by just the skin. In my panic, I couldn’t remember the vet’s phone number, even though I know it by heart.
My husband tried in futility to bandage Max’s leg. We all knew what this meant. Max stood quietly in the driveway, on three legs, with his head on my shoulder, licking my hand, until the vet arrived. I don’t know who was comforting whom. There was not a dry eye among the humans present when the big, dark horse closed his eyes. I had to call Max’s new owner at 4 a.m. and tell her what happened.
Max’s story has been heard around the world via the Internet. Orthopedic surgeons at the University of Colorado veterinary school will use the photos of his leg in their lectures. An Arabian farm in Texas gave a young horse to Max’s buyer because they felt so bad. People from around the U.S. have sent me cards and remembrances.
It has taken months to turn off the video in my mind’s eye of that terrible event. It was like witnessing a car wreck and knowing there was nothing you could do to prevent it. I’m finally able to remember Max running and bucking in the field, neighing and begging for attention, the way he would want to be remembered. In his place is a beautiful filly, his full sister, galloping about the pasture as her big brother did. She licks hands, too.
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Cisco Buck, May 1980 to August 2000.
Big. Big heart, big body, big soul. This describes Cisco, one of my best horses ever. He was born on our farm in northern Wisconsin, a sturdy bay colt out of my Appy mare, Fresca's Chief. His sire was an unregistered Morgan stallion who lived on a pig farm. The stallion owner didn't charge us a stud fee, he said his horse "had a ball."
Cisco grew up big and strong and smart. My ex-husband, Craig, taught him to shake hands. You had to be careful about touching Cisco's chest, or his right front leg would pop up to shake hands with you!
He had a gentle, but determined nature about him. This horse would have won no prizes for conformation.. he had a big Roman nose, a back that was too long. But he rode like a Cadillac and had the heart and soul of a champion. He inherited the Morgan gene for bravery. Cisco would have walked through fire if I asked him to.
When he was 4, we sold Cisco and his sister, Rosie. When he was almost 6, we bought him back for more than we sold him for. His owners had abandoned their farm and animals. Cisco was sold at county auction. When he came home, he was so grateful to be back, I made a promise that he would never leave me again and we became best friends.
I loved the feeling of his big powerful body moving under me. I knew he could carry me anywhere. But Cisco's hooves weren't as strong as his valiant heart and soul. In August 2000, at the age of 20, he gave up his long battle with chronic laminitis. I asked our good friend and veterinarian, Dr. Drew, to send Cisco over the Rainbow Bridge. Drew and I both were in tears when the gallant horse breathed his last breath.
I hope you are galloping through fields of clover, Cisco.
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Al Marah Hannah .. age unknown. Died Feb. 5, 2001.
Hannah was a grand old gal. She came in to our lives and stayed for only two weeks. Hannah's owner wanted to find her a new home before he went on an extended trip overseas. Hannah suffered from chronic laminitis.
Maranatha Ranch in Tennessee, an animal rescue farm, offered to take Hannah and asked if I could keep her at my farm until they could pick her up.
It was clear that Hannah was not strong enough for the trip from Kansas to Tennessee. We had a vet and a farrier evaluate her. She was foundered in all four feet and suffered from advanced Cushing's disease, a tumor of the pituitary gland.
Ellen, at Maranatha, and I decided the kindest thing to do would be to have Hannah euthanized. The vet agreed that it was quite likely that the kind old mare would not survive a long trailer ride.
From what I know of Hannah's history, she was almost a perfect horse..no behavior problems, easy to ride, loving and kind. Be well, Hannah.
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WITEZIA, MAY 24, 1975 TO NOV. 7, 2000
Witezia was a grand old dame of Polish Arabian bloodlines, a great granddaughter of WitezII. I was hoping she would infuse a greater percentage of WitezII into my herd's bloodlines. She was carring a foal at her ripe old age of 25.
Witezia came to us in September of 2000 and lived with us only a short time. But in that short time, she became very much a part of our herd and our lives. She was an easy horse to fall in love with.
Tezzie came to us thin and with weepy eyes. With senior horse food and beet pulp, she put on weight and her coat became shiny again. With some antibiotics, her eyes cleared up. In a few short weeks, she gained strength and her personality shone.
Witezia's promise for our future herd perished in the cold dark hours of election night, 2000. I was working at my newspaper job, covering election results, when my husband called. "Witezia's down and won't get up," he said. I instructed him to call the vet, and I left work immediately.
Tezzie was colicking. The vet said her gut sounds were nil. Her heart was racing fast and her body temperature was dropping. "Her internal systems are shutting down," he said.
He flushed her with oil and told me to try to walk her and keep her on her feet. But he said, "if she goes down, it's over."
I blanketed her to keep her warm. I walked her for hours. We got a few meager poops, but nothing that would relieve her terrible discomfort. Finally, she told me she was through. She didn't want to fight anymore. I knew she just wnated to lie down and go to sleep and I knew she would never wake up again. I hugged her bay neck and cried and let her lie down. I covered her with another blanket and told her goodbye. I went in the house to warm up.
When I went back out, her body was there, but her spirit was gone. At that moment, a cold, hard, November rain started up. It rained all night and all day washing my dreams into the ground with Witezia.
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FRESCA'S CHIEF, Reg. Appaloosa mare. Born 1968.
Fresca was a once-in-a lifetime horse. She was born on my parent's place in Kansas City, Kansas, out of my sister's big QH mare.
Fresca was one of those rare horses who could be whatever you wanted her to be. If you wanted a swift and spirited mount, that's what she was. If you put a child on her back, she became quiet and careful and bombproof. She taught three generations of my family to ride and gave us three fabulous bay foals, two colts and a filly.
Fresca could scramble up steep hillsides like a mountain goat. She was nimble and sure footed. She was fast and had a very high gear, but she was responsive and kind and never offered to buck, rear, bite or kick. She was all you could ask for in a good horse.
At the ripe old age of 28, I let her go to a family who wanted a child-safe horse. It was a huge mistake. They didn't treat her well, and Fresca's health declined quickly. Even though I had them sign a contract giving me right of first refusal if they sold her, they took her to the sale barn without telling me. I would have bought her back in a heart beat, but never had the chance.
I try not to think of the fate that befell her. It was a tough lesson I learned. Fresca deserved a better, more dignified end to her life.
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CHEROKEE -- my first horse
Here I am giving a neighbor girl a ride. I was 15. Cherokee came in to my life when I was 12. Having a horse was a dream come true.
Cherokee was not a good beginner's horse. She was spooky and tested me severely. But somehow, she and I learned to get along. She was an awesome little mare. We tried barrel racing, games and western pleasure, but the thing we did the best together was trail ride. We spent hours together in the wooded trails of northwestern Wyandotte County, Kansas, around Wyandotte County Lake. Perhaps that is why I love endurance and competitive trail riding now. I love the hours spent on horse back.
Cherokee taught me much. I hope she was happy the years she spent with me.
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