Bridge Called Hope Read online

  I whipped my hat back on my head before it was cold. I quickly rationalized, “Dinner is overrated and any excuse is good enough for me to go and look at horses.” Laughing to myself, I shoved a power bar into my pocket and headed back out the front door.

  While driving the distance between our two ranches, I tried to piece together all of the fragments of information that Virginia had just given me. I wasn’t sure what I was about to see when I arrived at her place. They had just brought down one hundred weanlings, who were now in a very large corral recuperating from their 1,200-mile journey.

  In addition to being identical twins, Virginia and Vickie are well known in Central Oregon for many things. Together with their employer, they purchased the freedom of several hundred industry horses and brought them home to begin a new life in Oregon.

  Aside from their excellent work ethic and easy humor, they, more than all others combined, have brought PMU awareness and action to our beautiful state.

  PMU is an acronym for Pregnant Mare Urine, which is the source of hormones used to create the enormously popular hormone replacement therapy drug called Premarine. It’s also used in many over-the-counter “anti-aging” cosmetics. Harvesting mare urine for these products has been going on for the last sixty years. This is done by placing mares in a specialized “collection” stall. This space, which becomes their home for six months or more, is not wide enough for them to turn around in or lay down flat. Once they deliver their foal, the mares are immediately rebred, because it is only when they are pregnant that they produce the highly sought-after hormones. The resulting foals, especially the colts, are of little value to these farms, and are routinely sent to feedlots where most are sold for slaughter.

  Seeing the great need to intervene for these imperiled foals, Virginia and Vicki began their mission. By purchasing quantities of weanling colts and fillies, they initially hoped to train them up for numerous “dude strings” throughout the area. As these young horses entered the community and started proving themselves, their popularity began to soar.

  As most who have ever owned animals understand, it is relatively easy to find homes for young, cute, pliable individuals. Sadly, the aged, broken, and fearful ones do not have this ease afforded to them.

  When studies revealed that cancer could be linked to Hormone Replacement Therapy treatment, drug sales dropped dramatically and suddenly 30,000 PMU mares were out of work. At their age, and being large, heavy horses with virtually no training or socialization, nearly all were in grave peril of being slaughtered.

  When the devastating news of the PMU mares’ jeopardy reached Virginia and Vicki, they did more than just feel bad for them. Instead of only “feeling,” they acted.

  In what could perhaps be an Oregon-to-Alberta-to-Oregon turnaround speed record, they purchased as many mares as their convoy could move. Their final tally was 240 pregnant mares—all of whom now have a safe home and will never be in danger of slaughter again. However, any accolade that might be given to either of the dynamic twins would just be matter-of-factly shrugged off. While punctuated with an expression of satisfaction, they would merely view it as all in another day’s work.

  Even though PMU farms have been in existence since 1942, it has only been in the last decade that urine harvesting practices have been more readily revealed. The horses involved in this industry are primarily heavy draft and draft crosses. This is to ensure greater volumes of urine per horse. A fifteen-hundred-pound mare will produce more than a nine hundred-pound mare.

  The horses are fitted with one of two methods of collection. Either they are internally cauterized or they are fitted with an external device. The hose that exits their body empties into a plastic container outside the horse’s stall.

  To create a greater concentration of estrogen in the urine, the horses are given only a limited amount of water. This combined with trying to grow a foal with little or no exercise often results in severe infections within the mare’s liver and kidneys. Although most horses’ normal life span is around thirty years of age, it is not uncommon for PMU mares to not survive past the second trimester of life because of their abnormal stress load.

  Until recently, most of the surviving colt population was sold to the slaughter market, while the fillies would be kept to replace their rapidly depleting mothers. All this equine woe continues today in support of an antiquated drug that has already been replicated synthetically in a much purer form. It has been estimated that since its inception, more than one million horses have perished within this industry.

  Currently, many PMU farms will host an annual autumn foal sale. Some do this solely to boost their bottom line and some because they honestly wish a better life for the livestock that supports them. Either way, things are slowly beginning to change for the horses born into this archaic industry.

  One of the foundations for this change is the widespread recognition that these draft-crossed babies grow up into incredibly versatile horses. As they filter into the working horse world, they are turning heads as remarkable trail, mountain, pack, and all-around family horses. Because of their impressive size, bone structure, and movement, they are commanding respect in nearly every show venue as well.

  My attention snapped back to Virginia, who was waiting for me when I pulled into her driveway only moments later. In unison, we entered the corral where all of her new arrivals were munching on hay.

  As we walked amongst them, they parted before us like a dodging school of very large fish. While we strolled together, we briefly discussed the current status of the remaining PMU farms. Within this conversation, my friend laughed at her own joke: “I mean really … what woman would knowingly want to rub horse pee all over her face or dose it down with a glass of water?”

  Virginia went on to fill in the details of her earlier account. “The ranch where we buy these youngsters is 1,200 miles away, deep within the province of Alberta in Canada. It is located not far from the foot of the Canadian Rockies … beautiful, but wild. During our few days at the PMU farm, they shot five bears that had become so brazen that they were coming in and killing the horses. Because of the horses’ confinement, they had become easy targets for the marauding bears. Many of the foals did not survive.

  “While we were in Canada, our hosts drove approximately three hundred pairs of mares and foals into the squeeze chutes to be sorted apart from each other. As they came through the chutes, Vicki and I had about thirty seconds per foal to determine if we wanted to buy them. Instantly they were released into another large holding pen where they were permanently separated from their mother.”

  I could hear Virginia’s voice change subtly as she shifted her thoughts toward the reason why I was there. “The mothers and babies always come through together, usually with the mother in front of the foal. One pair came through and a wrangler noticed that the foal had sustained a bear attack. The colt’s whole hind end was involved, with most of the extensive damage done on his left rump and hamstring. They were going to ‘cull’ him out, which usually means an unfortunate end … but I just couldn’t let that happen.

  “When I saw him, I was surprised at how small he was. He couldn’t have been more than a few months old. He still needed to be at his mother’s side. I just felt like he was pleading for my help. He could survive these wounds if he was given a chance. That’s all he needed … just a chance.”

  “That’s when I thought of you … and felt that if he could survive the two-day trip home, smashed in with dozens of others who were twice his size, he was meant to be yours.” As she looked at me, I could see that her heart had been greatly moved by this tiny colt.

  “At every sale there is a veterinarian present to inspect each animal that will cross the border into the U.S. They are instructed to pull all horses that exhibit any lumps, bumps, obvious swelling, or open wounds. We had three foals pulled from our herd because of random swellings. I had hardly finished telling the hosts that I would gladly pay to have this pitiful little colt vetted until he was
cleared for travel, when suddenly the attending vet just waved him on through as ‘fit to continue.’

  “We loaded up the ‘kids’ and drove six hours to the U.S. line, and then had to unload everyone for their final border inspection. For the second time in a day, an inspector looked right at him and gave the order to load him back into the trailer!

  “I never thought that I would be happy to have a truckload of muddy babies … but I realize now that I sure am grateful for all the muck on the littlest one! Who knew that a little well-placed mud on a wound could open palace doors?”

  Bathed in the beautiful light of early evening, Virginia and I continued our search through the herd for this special little babe who had already survived so much. The enclosure for the young horses was very large and supplied with a half dozen or more giant bales of hay for the youngsters to free-choice graze from. Even in their exhaustion, the horses were still wary of human approach. The entire corral moved like a lazy river of shifting, eating, and napping infants. “You won’t believe it when you see him … he is such a cutie patutie!”

  I laughed out loud at her trademark nickname of adoration.

  “Look for the smallest baby in the herd; he is a beautiful buckskin. Did I mention that he has a wide blaze and three high white socks?”

  I glanced at Virginia. She amazed me. Her brain was a virtual horse-sorting computer. In all her years of dealing with horses, thousands of horses, she never forgot a single detail, not a snipe, a blaze, a sock, or a stripe. She remembered them all, each for their very best attributes, each with much affection.

  “There he is!” she said, and pointed to a small herd of about a dozen youngsters who were moving away from us.

  I looked but saw no buckskin among them. I looked back at Virginia and verified the direction she was pointing, but still did not see him. When we turned directly toward the small group, they parted like a flock of birds. Virginia was right; hidden amongst the bigger, stronger weanlings was a tiny golden baby.

  My enthusiasm to finally see him was momentarily interrupted when his hind end came fully into my view. As he turned and began moving directly away from me, I could clearly see the injuries on both sides of his rump. Although the gashes on his right rump were partially hidden by mud and hair, the left rump injury was over a foot long vertically, with a fist-sized chunk of flesh that was bitten right out of the middle. It was horrifyingly unmistakable. How could anyone with two eyes not see this?

  Dear Lord … how has this infant survived? I thought, as I noticed a dry trail of bloody serum nearly the width of my arm crusted down the remaining length of his leg.

  I could hardly speak. He was small! His tiny stature was supported on stilt-like legs with gigantic knees and even bigger feet. He moved with the same huge-footed “flippity-floppity” gait of a large-breed puppy — the same kind of puppy that makes everyone look at its feet and say, “Holy Cow! This one’s going to be a monster!” The colt’s legs were heavily feathered with long, silky hair, indicating that he was a draft.

  Before I could comment, he turned his head slightly back to look at me. With that distinctively crested profile, there was no doubt he was not only a draft breed … he was a Clydesdale!

  I felt a bit like an adoptive parent who was seeing her child for the first time. All his unique shortcomings, through the eyes of a “mother,” became invisible. Beneath my own breath, I finally said, “There he is … my little boy.”

  I was acutely aware that Virginia was watching my reaction. The sheer “wattage” from her smile could not be measured. Perhaps when she first saw him, her response had been similar to mine. After several moments, my voice returned. “He’s a buckskin Clyde? How can that be?” I asked after menally tallying that Clydesdales only come in variations of black, bay, and roan.

  “You’re right” she confirmed. “Clydesdales cannot make this color pattern. I have met his sire, who is a stunning seventeen-hand red roan Clyde. This baby’s color must have somehow come through his mother, who I believe was a draft quarter horse cross.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He moved in such a floundering way. Each leg seemed to be traveling in a different direction than the others. He was young … really young. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of his awkward movement was due to his age … or his injuries. Virginia was right about this one; truly, all he needed was a chance.

  Once the baby Clyde was settled in his new home on the ranch, we named him “Little Bear” in honor of his remarkable past. I realized that his name would soon become a joke, because his feet clearly indicated that he wasn’t going to be little for very long!

  Instinct had taught this youngster that if he was to survive, he needed to protect his injuries. Even though he quickly accepted me, my staff, and the ranch kids, he did not want anyone to touch him from his shoulders back. This posed an obvious problem if we were going to attempt to vet this little man.

  As with much in life, consistency is the key. Daily, I would enter his corral and offer him a pan of grain. While he ate, I would gently brush his face, neck and shoulders. If I was alone, having a voice that only a horse could appreciate, I would sing songs for him. Gradually, I would allow the brush to travel a little farther down his body with each soothing stroke. With every little “victory” I would reward him with a massage on the top of his withers.

  After a few weeks, our goal was achieved and he would allow gentle touching around his injury. The day soon came when I entered his corral armed with a bucket of warm water, clean rags, sharp scissors, and some ointment, it was time to clean his wounds. Julie, one of the ranch staff, steadied his front end with one hand and brushed him with the other. Even though he was a bit anxious at times, he was a brave little soul and allowed me full access to the very worst parts of his wounds.

  As I carefully cut away dead skin, sloughed scabs, and handfuls of hair caked with mud and serum, I couldn’t help but wonder if this isn’t exactly like those moments when we choose to allow God to come inside and heal us. What a sweet moment of surrender it is when we release a deep sigh and finally turn and reveal our ugliest parts for Him to begin carefully removing all of our “decay.” Once our oozing, emotional battleground is exposed and our festering “sensitivities” are carefully cleansed of all that isn’t truth … only then is our healing free to come. Wow, Lord … if only I would stand this still for You during these unpleasant but very necessary times of healing and growth, I thought to myself as I finished up.

  “There, we’re all done!” I said to Julie, who was still holding Little Bear’s head while grooming him. Together, we marveled at how much larger and deeper the actual injury was … once it was fully exposed. Yet, we both clearly understood that this was the only way to bring about a purposeful healing.

  Little Bear’s damage was so extensive that his injuries took nine months to heal. But heal they did.

  Our young colt had survived a bear attack at what was probably only weeks after his birth. He survived being badly injured even while separated from his mother, who was his only source of comfort, protection, and love. With a large, gaping wound, he walked right past the searching eyes of those who were seeking obvious external defects. And in a trailer with dozens of other infants who were healthy and twice his size, he was moved 1,200 miles … without being crushed.

  In nearly every aspect of his life today, he stands as one who has both figuratively and in flesh and blood defied what most would consider impossible odds.

  When “someone needs to do something” rose up and stood before Virginia and Vicki, they quietly understood that on this day … “someone” was them. They took an unlikely chance on something they believed in with full understanding that what is impossible with man … is possible with God.

  True to his heritage, Little Bear now stands close to sixteen hands and weighs in at approximately 1,400 pounds of pure buckskin “play”! Even though his hamstring was compromised by his injury, he has apparently recruited surrounding tissue and remains com
pletely sound.

  Today, our “golden boy” still stands as one of the most unique and favored horses among those who come to visit. He is living proof that sometimes what seems unsurvivable … can be survived. His life continues to show us that it’s okay to push forward, mud and all, through what is painful … to find genuine healing.

  “Genuine healing” now lives on my ranch. Daily he proceeds to emanate gentle truth that encourages those around him to pick themselves up and keep trying … even when the way is dark.

  His incredible story of survival calls those who are searching and reminds them that faith, when it is authentic, requires us to act and live in the shadow of what we know is already true.

  Real faith begets action. When we acknowledge that everything we do has an effect on someone else, either good or bad, it opens our eyes and shores us up against how easy it is to become lulled into thinking that our actions are really just too small to matter much. We clearly see the consequences that when we choose to do nothing … nothing is what we will reap.

  At one time or another, all of us have been in a situation where we heard our own thoughts shouting, Someone needs to do something here, or Someone really needs to step up and help.

  Real faith encourages us that sometimes … someday is today, and that someone … is you.

  Ella, age 4, when calling the horses to the fence:

  “Okay, everyone who wants me to pet them …

  raise your hands … c’mon, raise ’em up!”

  All I could do was wonder as I looked at the three-year-old colt that stood before me. As a pale, palomino Appaloosa draped with a long white mane and tail, he was truly a rare and spectacular beauty. Yet my eyes continued to fall to his feet; my perplexity was completely centered on one question: “How can this young man even stand on feet such as these?” I have seen much equine hardship in my years of horse rescue and rehabilitation, but nothing like the four hooves that balanced in front of me.