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.

Barn Girls

When I first took my then five-year-old daughter for riding lessons, I had long term goals beyond making her a good rider.  I wanted to help her grow into a strong, independent young woman.  I wanted her to have empathy and respect for animals and for others.  I wanted her to learn to work hard and be proud of what she has achieved.  I wanted her to have positive role models around her, and I knew barn girls would help teach her what she needs to know--about horses and life.  I wanted her to have an older friend like Lexie.

We met Lexie at Graymour Stables, where we board our horses.  Lexie is the kind of young woman I want my two younger barn girls (almost 9 and 10) to be when they are sixteen years old.  Lexie can be counted on.  She is smart, and strong, and accomplished.  If you watch the videos of her in the show ring, you can see that.  She is respectful of others, says "yes, ma'm" and "yes, sir" to adults, and shows younger children that they, too, matter.  She babysits for us, and the girls are thrilled when she comes.  She often acts selflessly, such as the time she cleaned our little Appaloosa Peanut in places I don't have any idea how to clean.  She works hard, feeding horses and cleaning stalls every weekday morning with her mom, Leslie.  I've seen her lead a crew of volunteers in cleaning out the nastiest water troughs--with a smile on her face.  In everything she does, Lexie shows character.  

As a former director of a women's studies program, I know sports helps girls become and stay more of who they are despite the sometimes negative influences that surround them.  The Women's Sports Foundation lists these 25 benefits of girls participating in sports:

1. Sports are FUN.

2. Girls and women who play sports have a more positive body image than girls and women who don't participate.

3. Girls who participate in sports have higher self-esteem and pride in themselves.

4. Research suggests that physical activity is an effective tool for reducing the symptoms of stress and

depression among girls.

5. Playing sports teaches girls how to take risks and be aggressive.

6. Sport is where girls can learn goal-setting, strategic thinking and the pursuit of excellence in performance and other achievement-oriented behaviors—critical skills necessary for success in the workplace. 

7. Playing sports teaches math skills. 

8. Sports help girls develop leadership skills. 

9. Sports teach girls teamwork. 

10. Regular physical activity in adolescence can reduce girls' risk for obesity.

11. Physical activity appears to decrease the initiation of cigarette smoking in adolescent girls.

12. Research suggests that girls who participate in sports are more likely to experience academic success and graduate from high school than those who do not play sports.

13. Teenage female athletes are less than half as likely to get pregnant as female non-athletes (5% and 11%, respectively). 

14. Teenage female athletes are more likely to report that they had never had sexual intercourse than non-athletes (54% and 41%).

15. Teenage female athletes are more likely to experience their first sexual intercourse later in adolescence than female non-athletes.

16. High school sports participation may help prevent osteoporosis.

17. Women who exercise report being happier than those who do not exercise.

18. Women who exercise believe they have more energy and [feel] they [are] in excellent health more often than non-exercising women.

19. Women who [were] active in sports and recreational activities as girls feel greater confidence in their physical and social selves than those who were sedentary as kids.

20. Women who exercise miss fewer days of work. 

21. Research supports that regular physical activity can reduce hyperlipidemia (high levels of fat in blood). 

22. Recreational physical activity may decrease a woman's chance of developing breast cancer.

23. Women who exercise weigh less than non-exercising women.

24. Women who exercise have lower levels of blood sugar, cholesterol, triglycerides and have lower blood pressure than non-exercising women

25. Regular exercise improves the overall quality of life. 

I know the Women's Sports Foundation is right.  I know that riding horses has helped make Lexie the amazing teenage girl that she is. And I want the same for my girls.  

I am also being selfish.  When I was a teenager, I often argued with my mother, as all teenage girls do.  However, we could always talk about horses.  Our shared love of these animals kept us connected at times when other things were pulling us apart.  I want to stay connected to my girls, like my mom did with me.  I want them to know they can count on me, talk to me, come to me when they need me.  Horses can help.  

So I get up at 5:30 on the mornings I don't teach, and I take my girls to the barn to feed horses and muck out stalls.  I take them not only because I want us to contribute to the support and life of our barn, but also because I know they get to hang out with Lexie and the other barn girls.  They learn important skills--and important life lessons.  They grow more each day into the young women they will become.  

They are making me proud.  Like Lexie makes her mom and the barn proud.  And I believe they will continue to do so.  

Horses Taken into Custody

Imagine being tied up in a field. With no food. No water. In this heat.  This how the Livestock & Equine Awareness and Rescue Network found two horses in Mt. Pleasant on Friday.  Both were underweight and in heat distress.  One was down and took 30 minutes to revive enough to take to the trailer.

I’m not a person to get angry easily. But I can tell you, I became mad when I read the Post and Courier report about horses having to be taken into custody because of this abuse.  

The owner of the property, Rufus Manigault Jr., claims that the horses aren’t his, and he just let the owner put the horses in the field.  At the time of the article, the owner could not be contacted.  Manigault seems to think this absolves him of responsibility, while I think it puts guilt firmly on his shoulders.  If he knew of it, he should have stopped it.  Period.  And that holds true for all of us.

Tying up horses and just leaving them in a field is not acceptable in itself, much less leaving them without food and water.  Nor is simply turning them free when the owner feels he cannot pay for them anymore,  as did the previous owner of a rescue horse brought to Graymour Stables this past week.   Whiskey, a small Arab-mix bay, was found running along side a road in Georgia with a too small halter imbedded into his skin. Who are these people?  And why do they think this is ok? 

Thank goodness there are people like Liz Leonvacallo, a volunteer who helped rescue the two horses tied up in a field, and the family of Brianna, a teenage girl who adopted Whiskey and gave him a good home.  And thank goodness for the neighbors who Channel 2 News reports as having contacted the sheriff's department.  We need more people like them.  

If you  suspect any abuse, please contact the Livestock & Equine Awareness and Rescue Network at www.learnhorserescue.com

When a Horse Falls

Dreamer and I ambled along the trail together, slowly, gingerly. – until he spotted a downed tree. His ears went up. Neck arched. Tail flipped up. The small hop made him happy for the rest of the day. An old thoroughbred with a big past, he was easy to please.


I was in my forties, and I had not ridden much in years.  I had been leasing the 20-year-old Dreamer for months, and I started taking lessons for the first time since I was a teenager.  I wanted to remember.

In the ring, he was less happy than out on the trails. Used part-time as a lesson horse, he got tired of the circles. He got impatient with me – with the ring – with being inside when he wanted to be outside looking for logs to hop. He forgot where he was. Who he was. In a full canter, too fast for the indoor arena, the thoroughbred’s racing instinct spurred him to speed up even more on the straight away. My blood quickened with his, and for a moment, we moved in unison, his body under me, powerful and graceful, and I could see the racehorse he once was. I felt right there on the edge of control, a shadowy reminder of the big black horse. I felt that dark fear. I tensed. To ease into the turn, I tried to rein him in.

Suddenly, I was not looking at his ears anymore but the dirt as he stumbled. I lunged forward in the saddle, head thrown with enough force to cause lights to fleck across my path. My shift of weight put the horse further off balance, and we hovered on the edge of a fall. I grabbed his mane in a last ditch effort to stay on, my legs squeezing his sides as he scrambled for better footing. I threw my weight the other way, and we were balanced again, moving as one. My daughter cheered from the side of the ring, and I remembered I was setting an example for her. Did I want her to see all this fear? I started to pull him in again, but stopped.

As we reentered the straight away, I dropped the reins, extended my arms, and turned palms up to the sky. I held him straight with my legs alone, and he responded, trusting me as I trusted him. He was beautiful, and riding him, I was beautiful, too.

But it didn’t last.

A few weeks later, I was taking a lesson on one side of the indoor ring. My five-year-old daughter was riding on the other side – just off the lunge line and allowed to walk on her own. Her laugh floated up into the vaulted ceiling like soap bubbles as she bounced along.

Dreamer was having trouble. He wouldn’t stay in a canter. My legs were exhausted from pushing him forward. Dust filled my nose and mouth and all I could taste was grit. My riding instructor stalked to the tack room, came back with a crop, and she handed it to me. It felt cold and long and lean in my hand. Dreamer caught a look at it, and, suddenly, it was 18 years ago and he was a two-year-old on the track, about to get beaten. He took off like the starting gate bell had rung and the doors had flown open wide and he had all the track in the world in front of him.

As this horse sped across the arena at full racing speed, I saw my small daughter on her little Arab, right in my path. Oh, my god don’t bolt, please please please little Arab, don’t bolt. I pulled all my weight to one side as we ran past them, keeping the big horse away from the small one. Bless her, the little Arab stood her ground , keeping my daughter safe.

But we ran out of room and came straight to the wall. Dreamer spun around, making a turn too sharp for any horse. I felt him begin to fall. And I started falling, too. I pushed hard on his withers, up and away, so my leg wouldn’t get caught under him. He bashed the ground as I rolled away, pain shooting through my side. I would find later that beyond the visible bruises and limp, I had injured my spleen and pancreas, and I would spend three weeks on bed rest. Dreamer limped out of the arena, shoulder and leg damaged beyond repair. Dreamer soon retired to an old thoroughbred horse farm in Aiken. I didn’t ride him anymore. As far as I know, no one ever does.

I know it wasn’t my fault. But you can’t tell my guilt that. I sat around doing nothing for weeks except thinking about it, trapped on bed rest. I began to feel responsible for Dreamer’s career-ending injury. If I had only done more. If I had only done better. If I had only taken care of him. I doubted myself as a rider. In the ancient myths, the unicorn only comes to the pure maiden who waits for him in the woods. Pegasus only obeys the hero who has proven himself. I once felt that kind of connections with my horses. I was once that kind of rider, but now felt that I had fallen from grace. Dreamer no longer came to me.

Fear of the out of control moments terrorized me. Look what happens. Horses fall. You get hurt. Your child could be hurt.

 If only … if only … if only….

I eventually rode again, here and there, but not regularly. I saved my lesson money for my daughter. I figured I would become a great barn mom, and that would be that, and I would enjoy riding through her. I hovered on the edges of barn life, feeling unworthy of a horse.

Altars of Sacrifice (published in "A Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers")

by Amy Hudock

I can’t sleep. Again.

I sit on my upper front porch, door open so that I can hear if my daughter wakes up and calls for me from her room. In the pasture across the street, horses graze in the moonlight. I hear their soft snorts as they move lazily along the fence, heads down, jaws grinding.

I remember taking my sleeping bag to the barn when I was child and hearing the same soothing noises as I drifted off to sleep in the hay. Once, I woke n the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. My pony, Rainyday, was not at all surprised when I gave him a midnight snack and climbed on his back. As I lay back on his haunches, his slow rolling walk rocked me back toward sleep. Part of me wants to go to the horses now and let them help me end this sleeplessness, this anxious being alone in the dark.   Read more.