Colic

Image from Marcia Baldwin 

I hear a soft nicker, as only a horse who loves you can make, and I walk to where Peanut stands. His white coat, punctuated with small brown spots, is full of mud from rolling. Saliva sticking to his sides shows me where he has been nipping his belly.

Peanut isn’t acting right this morning.  He’s lying down a bit, seems like he’s cramped up.

> You can read the rest of this story in an upcoming issue of Equus Magazine.

Letting Go (in August issue of EQUUS)

I climb into the saddle from the mounting platform usually used by children in wheelchairs. I settle in, pick up the reins, set my cast on my left arm straight, and ask for forward. The motion of the horse starts a splash of hormones and chemicals and vibrations. My hands become stiff and ungiving. My legs tighten despite my brain ordering them to relax. Adrenaline heightens my senses, and I feel my horse underneath me, a coiled spring wound tight, dangerously close to expanding. I want get off this horse, to run away, to do anything to save myself. I fear him like I’d fear a man pointing a gun in my face.


You'll be able to read the rest of this story in a the August 2011 issue of EQUUS.

Children and Horses

Loving horses can save you. 

Kristen Hankla of the Post and Courier has written a profile of Elizabeth Steed, the director of LEARN Horse Rescue, that proves my point. In it, Hankla explains that Steed's nonprofit saves horses from abusive and dangerous situations as well as educates horse owners about their care.  However, the profile not only explores what brought Steed to loving horses and the work she does to help them, but also how the horses helped her survive the loss of a child.

Replay (published in the Post and Courier)

by Amy Hudock

What the heck am I doing? 

I am sitting in a truck full of horse lovers from the barn where I board my daughters’ pony, Graymour Stables.  We are driving up to Loris, SC, with an empty trailer.  To pick up a horse.  A horse for me.   After over 30 years of not having my own horse, here I am, about to buy one.

I think I’m going to be sick. 

You can find the rest of this story in the Post and Courier in the guest column "Life Changes with Replay the Horse." 

Runaway Horse

As far as I could see ahead of me and behind me, horses and riders formed a chain of flesh and energy. We were in the pine forests of eastern North Carolina, weaving our way along a trail.  I was eight years old and proud to be riding among the big girls, the ones who flew over downed logs and laughed while dodging garden spider webs set face high for riders. We came to a shallow stream, and my pony and I followed the horse in front of us right in. Automatic. Without thought. 


Rainyday stopped. He pawed at the water like he was trying to dig a hole. I kicked him to go on, but he ignored me. His knees began to buckle. He was going down. I got my feet out of the stirrups, and vaulted from his back as he sank into the water. “No, Rainyday! No!” I dragged on the reins. But he began to roll, with the new saddle and all. Back and forth. When I finally got him up, he shook mud and water all over me. We were both a slippery mess.

Horse Quote

For those of us who truly love horses, we don't have to ride them, even touch them, for them to bring us great joy and comfort. The value of a horse goes beyond its use. Its utility is in simply being what it is. Sometimes just seeing a horse calmly grazing in a green pasture is all we need.


People pay great amounts of money for works of art that hang on their walls. It is not alive, but comes alive inside them when it touches their hearts with wonder. But not all art hangs in galleries. Sometimes it walks in our fields like golden sunlight.  


-- from Janice Willard's "Not All Art Hangs in Galleries" in Chicken Soup for the Horse Lovers Soul II.  

Bucked Off

by Amy Hudock

My horse broke into a canter (unasked) and humped up his back, trying to knock me off.  One time. Two times. Three.  I held on, scrambling to pull his head up.  He threw his head back and way up, and I thought it was over. But no.  His head went way down this time -- rodeo style -- and his bottom went high in the air. I landed on all fours.  Pain kept me still as he skidded away.  I heard Risa tell my daughter:  "Go get him.  Quietly. Slowly."  I sat back on my haunches, my stomach, fist-like, and my head, full of sparkles.  My wrist was bent up like a car that has rear-ended a truck.

Risa helped me to the edge of the ring.  She had been giving a lesson, and the child's father was standing there.  He touched my arm, feeling it's length.  He sent Risa for some magazines to make a splint.  He was an orthopaedic doctor or nurse or something.  I wasn't clear.  The pain dominated me, and I was breathing like I had when giving birth.  Risa asked for phone numbers.  I could remember nothing.  My daughter and step-daughter helped reach my husband and mother, who set out for the barn.  Risa loaded me into the car to take me  to the closest ER at Trident Hospital, which I thought was a good choice.  I was to find out differently.  

The nurse took one look at my arm and walked me right back.  No waiting.  A woman doctor with kind eyes examined me, and not long after, William, my nurse, showed up with a syringe of pain meds. But that shot barely touched the pain.  Risa called after him as he trotted down the hall: "When is this supposed to take effect?"  Another shot.  My husband arrived to takeover for Risa.  X-rays.  More pain meds.  The doc with the kind eyes told me surgery is likely.  Not a clean break.  Crushed bone. And "You'll need pins or a plate to set the bone."  

We waited.  And waited. Then the doctor showed back up, clearly unhappy.  

"We're going to do a nerve block and put this bone into place.  That's what the orthopedic doctor on call wants us to do."  

"What about surgery?"

"You'll need to see him in his office next week."

I was confused.  And as I kept asking questions, she became more uncomfortable.  She was doing as she had been told, but she clearly didn't agree with it.  I was told I would need to make an appointment with the orthopaedic doctor next week.  

More waiting.  The attending doc (not the one with kind eyes) arrived, and I also asked him my questions.  He explained that referring patients to the private offices of doctors on call often happened.  He said the hospital wasn't really set up for that kind of surgery.  That there was no need for the on-call orthopaedic doctor to come in because I wasn't at risk of dying, and, really, it wasn't like I had a bone sticking out or anything.  I held back screams as he shot up my fragmented bones, readjusted them, and left.  My nurse splinted my arm, and I was released.  I never saw the orthopaedic doctor.  

What a difference a few years can make.  I broke the same wrist 13 years before, in a similar way. I was run off the road on my bike.  I landed on my left palm as I tried to break my fall. And I also had crushed bone.  It was on a Sunday, too.  But then, at Cabell County Hospital in Huntington, WV, the on-call orthopaedic doctor left his weekend activities to see me.  He actually met with me, examined me, and arranged for the surgery that evening.  By the next day, I was recovering and on my way to returning to the college classroom where I was teaching.  

Now, it is Wednesday, and I have been waiting to see the orthopaedic doctor for three days.  All of his patients from the weekend were scheduled to see him in his office at the , and I had to wait even longer because mine was the less life threatening of the group.  I will see him today at 2:45.  Health care has changed.  

But so has my body.  When I was younger, I jumped right up when I fell off a horse.  Now I don't bounce, I break.  I also bruise.  Color is coming out in broad brush strokes on my arms and legs.  I ache all over.  And I can't button my own pants.  I am feeling my age.

Some friends have posed the question: is it worth it?  And my knee jerk reaction is"yes."  Of course. But when I look at the larger picture - how I am missing days from work. How my mother has disrupted her plans to stay here and become, essentially, me in the care of children and the household.  How my husband has had to take on additional duties.  How I didn't get to take the girls school shopping or to their first day of school. Then I begin to wonder.

When it was just me, I could take bigger risks. But as part of a family, I don't think I can justify it.  I won't give up riding, as some have suggested. But I can be more careful. I can decide to give up the more risky jumping for the less dangerous dressage.  I can make sure my horse gets the extra training he needs.  I can rethink how I ride, so I can keep riding into my old age.

I can adapt - so that my body holds together through a lifetime of loving horses.  

Rescued Horse Fighting for Life

by Amy Hudock

David MacDougall of The Post and Courier reports that Angel, one of two horses rescued this week from a home in Mt. Pleasant, is struggling for her life.  She is being treated at the Shambley Equine Clinic, and it is estimated that her treatment will cost around $2000.  An unidentified woman has offered to give the horse a home, but she can't also afford to pay the full vet bill, and is looking for help.  You can send donations to LEARN Horse Rescue.

As I mentioned in my last blog post on this rescue, the mare was found down and unresponsive while tied to a cinderblock in a field.  She and her stallion companion had no food or water, and the heat index was high.  I provided a link to a video interview with a volunteer from LEARN Horse Rescue, who was clearly moved. The owner of the land, Rufus Manigault Jr, was charged with animal abuse, and the horse owner was not found yet.

Since my last post, Manigault was found not guilty.  The owner of the horses, Benjamin Elbert of Hook Lane, Mt. Pleasant, was charged $500 each horse for animal abuse.  However, I think they both got off far too easy.  At least, the owner should be made to pay the vet bill and permanently surrender the animals to new homes.  And the owner of the land should also pay a fine for allowing a crime to be committed on his property.  They should get more than a slap on the wrist.  

The stallion has been placed in a foster home, and the mare's future is uncertain. If you can, send a donation to to LEARN Horse Rescue to help her out.

The First Time I Cantered on Peanut

By Sarah (age 9)

My horse, Peanut, is a great inspiration for me because every time I ride him, I learn something new. He’s like my life lessons teacher or whatever, and I appreciate that. He teaches me stuff all the time that makes my life a whole lot easier. Everyone needs someone like that, human or not.

One day I took a regular riding lesson with my riding instructor, Miss Lindsey. I was just trotting along with Peanut, and suddenly my instructor grabbed the lunge line.  I asked her what she was using it for, and she said, “Do you want to canter?” and I shouted out, “YES!”

Look, I had been riding for three years in a row, and I still didn’t know how to canter, and I wasn’t bad at riding. I just switched from one barn to the next, and I never got a chance to canter, but now that I am hopefully staying, I can finally canter.

I followed my instructor’s orders; I started off at a trot, put my right foot forward, hugged with my left foot, and then kicked with my right. Peanut started off on a nice, easy canter, and my heart was beating one hundred times a minute. I was so scared. My instructor told me to sit back and relax my stomach.  Peanut was being really calm. He helped me be calm, too. I loved it!

I will never forget the first time I cantered.


Sarah is a rising fourth-grader.  She likes riding Peanut and playing the saxophone.  She is also a yellow belt in karate.  This is her first published story.