84 In Defense of My Lady Tahoe's Honor.

                             

In Loving Memory of  the "Lucky Dun Ranch and my wonderful years as a massage therapist at Aspen Equine Studies”

Mere Gurudev-Krishna Das-Door of Faith

                           In Defense of My Lady Tahoe’s Honor

                                          Albert Bianchine

 

      I am a dying mare, well before my time. I feel the prick of the Veterinarian’s Euthanasia needle in my neck and the rush of the drugs as they course through my body, and my knees buckle and I fall helplessly to the good earth, for the very last time. The earth whose soft motherly comfort that I haven’t lain on for over a full year for fear I could no longer get up. I take a breath, a deep rattling last breath. The light begins to flicker in my eyes and with the remnant of my soul leaving my body, I think of my final days at the rescue ranch. I feel the touch of this big warm wonderful man’s hands as he caresses my chestnut face in the twilight of my setting sun. I stare into his eyes and our lights connect for the very last time. I will always remember and cherish the gentle touch of these hands, the hands of god, that caressed me with a kindness and thoughtfulness and love I’ve never known. The hands that massaged my prematurely aging and aching body and eased my burdens and gave me strength to endure the sufferings of being ridden to, and starved to near death. Then having to endure the pain and humility of the auction barns and being tossed aside without even a name. These hands, the hands that raised me up, when I collapsed at the closing of the auction gates the hands that wiped away my bloody noses, and massaged off my dead decaying skin and brought life, dignity, and vitality back to me, even if only for a short while to my prematurely dying soul. I look back over the past year and this man and his loving warm hands as the most wonderful days of my life. There were times when I felt like a young filly again and proudly pranced the fields for him. If I could only have spent many more years in he and his wife’s care and known and felt the touch of their massage students again, again and again. I leave my body now to this man and his hands and his mind that summoned the Veterinarian for this last act of kindness and compassion. I glance deep into his eyes and as the light flickers from my being, I plead. Let not my death be in vain! Please! Don’t ever let them take these hands from my brothers and sisters.

Sister's Precious Miracle

A grulla buckskin brood mare,

we knew something was funny 

when Beau the buckskin stallion stood

against the corral fence

in the furthest corner

his head leaning

over the top railing.

The student's had massaged her

during the last several classes.

"Dehydration," Katarina said.

Sister's skin was wrinkly and puffy

we had given her electrolytes orally

to stimulate her to drink

her hard dry bag had begun

to fill with milk.

She was able to walk

slowly without strong urging

the Vet said, "let her nurse

her tests are negative."

He dismissed allowing Brooks

a surrogate milking mare

from nursing her expected foal.

Sister allowed me to hold her head

tight against my chest

over her lifeless cremello foal,

she released long loud sighs

I gently caressed her masseter

there was nothing I could do.

The brood mare and their foals

lined the sides of the narrow ranch lane

their chests pressed tight against the white

paddock rails watching silently

as the diesel tractor drove past.

Sister and Beau walked slowly behind

stood quietly while the foal was buried

walked slowly around the grave

and returned to their open corral.

The Cowboy and the Vet had taken

the blood sample from Sister's twin.

Sister had eaten fescue grass

it caused a long gestation period

and the problems with her milk

it had poisoned her foal.

This fall Sister stood dignified,

head held high

next to her filly miracle "Precious,"

proudly presenting her to me

she relaxed while receiving her massage.

The little filly nibbled

at the student's blue shirt sleeve

her hand trembled effleuraging

the mare's neck,

a tear dripped off her cheek

on to the dry corral floor.

Horse Hair Poetry

I wish for my poems 

to be like horse hairs

that catch into your clothing,

saddle blankets and brushes

that cling and weave

into the fabric of your life.

                          Morning's with Jack London

        I was reminded this weekend of my early mornings on our rescue ranch with our orphaned paint colt Slick Little Fox. He was born with congenital flexural deformity and the breeder's wanted to put him down. I am and Equine Massage Therapist. I have dedicated my life to healing and not killing and I knew we could help his crooked little legs so we persuaded the owners to let us take the young colt. We orphaned him at just a few days old and needed a companion for him so we purchased a nubian alpine goat that I named Jack London. He was very young himself. I had him in the trailer so that when the colt came in he would at least have another animal to be with. Over the days I fed Bubba (my pet name for him) with a bottle and worked on his legs around the clock. The progress was wonderful and to make a long story short his legs grew strait and true and he became a fine young colt. Once he was weaned, we fed him folac a supplemental nutritional feed to help him grow because he did not have his mother's milk. Jack London took a liking to the feed and would push my friend Bubba away from it. I tried everything including raising the feeder above his reach. He still managed to get to it. He became angry and would try to head butt me to keep me from pushing him away. The days moved on and Bubba grew and Jack became known as folac Jack. Until one morning I went in to feed and the little colt stepped in front of his companion cocked his head raised his front legs and head butted me right in the chest. Down I went and the folac went flying all over the stall floor. So that Jack London could get it. Needless to say we stopped that behavior quickly.

  

Samba Pa Ti, Carlos Santana