Defending Debudding . . . or . . . How to rescue animals in an imperfect world . . .

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News Flash: We don’t live in a perfect world.

Reality Check: All we can do is the best we can and hope humanity wakes up. Soon.

Yesterday was a rough day here on Locket’s Meadow. After several months of internal debate (and external debate with my veterinarian, whose patient answer was always, “I will do whatever you decide,”) we had the calves debudded and banded. Generally it’s uneventful. The boys are sedated and the vet uses a hot iron on the buds where their horns would eventually grow. Then, to castrate them, she uses a device that puts a band around their testicles and cuts off the circulation so they wither up and fall off (no jokes here, please . . .) The other option is to wait a little longer and do it surgically, which is more painful and has a longer recovery time as well as a chance of infection.

As far as castration goes, there is no option; we can’t have testosterone infested, one-ton bulls in our backyard. Period. Same goes for pigs, goats, sheep . . . all men are treated equally here on Locket’s Meadow.

We generally debud goats because they play with children and assist with yoga classes. It’s safer and we hate to deny them the interaction with humans that they enjoy so much. Our animals have never tried to gore anyone on purpose, but they can play hard and accidentally catch someone with a horn. Norman, our ancient Jersey steer, came with horns and we left them alone as he’s docile as a lamb. However, one of his horns curls back into his head and we’ve had to saw the end off several times as it continued to grow into his skull, so he may have been better off without them . . .

Benny Coconut . . . well . . . we left his horns alone because he is the sweetest, gentlest, loveliest animal in the world and wouldn’t hurt a fly (literally – he refuses to be fly sprayed in the summer.) But in retrospect, I wish we had debudded him. Now that he’s missing his right eye (removed due to cancer) he swings his head wildly to see what’s happening on his blind side and he’s dangerous, but NEVER on purpose! This means he now gets less petting and seldom is hugged. I know he misses the hands-on attention, but getting caught with one of those horns could be fatal. How could I have guessed he’d get cancer and lose an eye, making his horns an issue? Hindsight . . . dammit . . .

So, yesterday, Dr. Cait came out and did her thing. I had waited a little too long while debating, so Francis Beauregard had a little bit of horn growth that had to be trimmed before cauterizing the bud. Everything was uneventful until about an hour later when I noticed blood oozing from one side. Then, he reached up with a hind leg and gave it a good scratch. Styptic powder, flour, cobwebs . . . I don’t care what you put on this bleeder – it was a geyser of shooting blood and needed a hot iron. So, I stood with my fingers pressed into it while I waited for the vet to come back – in rush hour traffic. Because we put so much time into handling our babies, Francis was an angel, only getting upset if I tried to walk away for a minute (left in the care of our trainer, Shannon, who apparently has some sore muscles today from trying to hold him still when I was out of sight.) Dr. Cait finally returned, heated up the iron, cauterized the artery and life went on.

Our lives here are an open book. I post it all, good, bad, ugly . . . if I’m going to tell the story of animal rescue, I’m going to tell it openly and honestly. Sometimes things fall apart. Would I rather not debud? Are you kidding? OMG, I hate doing it! But if my options are to rescue a bull calf and keep him intact, isolated, unsocialized and unsafe, or do two small surgeries so he can have friends and lots of love and attention, I’m debudding and banding.

Our steers live long, happy lives. We love them and take care of their needs. Their alternative? A horrible death in a slaughter house after spending their early lives enclosed in a tiny hut, mostly immobile, crying for their mothers with whom they only were allowed a few hours before being wrenched away.

Here in the muddy trenches we do the best we can with what we have to keep our animals safe. We train our rescued horses to be ridden because as the world is RIGHT NOW, if we don’t, should this farm close down, the only ones who stand a chance of avoiding slaughter for meat are the ones who can hold a job. The rest . . . ugh . . . we would humanely euthanize our old and special needs angels before we would ever allow that to happen. Male animals are fixed/castrated/whatever to avoid them becoming aggressive. Otherwise, they can’t live here in small herds being handled by humans. (Same with dogs – training and neutering are mandatory! The worst week I ever endured was when I had two, six-month old Australian shepherds simultaneously spayed/neutered . . . “keep them quiet” the vet said . . . OMG! YOU keep them quiet! It’s not possible without DRUGS – GIVE ME DRUGS FOR THEM! AND ME!!)

Humans have created domesticated animals who depend upon us for everything. We can’t fix this – they’ve been domesticated for thousands of years and it’s too late. Say what you will about debudding, but then take a walk through your local supermarket and notice all the beef products on the shelves, in the freezers . . . everywhere. Slaughter is cruel. Feedlots are cruel. Isolating veal calves from their mamas is cruel. Factory farming is cruel and the enormous meat and dairy industries are cruel. Debudding is a headache for a few days, but it’s the best we can do to compensate for an industry that is inherently cruel. (Family farmers, please don’t get on my case – I have seen the “factories” and that is specifically what I’m talking about.) There is a fate far worse than debudding and your grocery store shelves are lined with the evidence.

The very best we can do is save a few precious lives, do what we can to make them happy and SAFE, invite people in to meet them and to learn that steers are beautiful, kind, affectionate and sentient beings and hope our babies can work their magic on their visitors. I have never once meet a carnivorous human who became vegan after being yelled at by a militant vegan. I REGULARLY hear from people who have been introduced to our pigs, goats, sheep, steers . . . you name it . . . who fall in love and stop eating meat. Without me ever saying one word (and I never have, nor ever will – the animals do a better job of educating than I ever could.)

So what is the ultimate solution? Calling me a cruel bitch does not make the world a better place for animals, so name-calling isn’t it. The only solution, practical or not, is for everyone to stop eating meat and for humans to stop constantly overbreeding domesticated animals. (Yes, I heard your guffaw, but hear me out . . .) the truth is that the business of making meat is bad for our planet, it’s bad for our health, and heaven knows it’s bad for the animals. And if you believe in karma, well, you know . . . bad, bad juju . . .

We need to double down on creating cruelty-free, lab-grown meats for those who feel they can’t live without it (carnivores live here, too, so deal with it!) we need more companies to invest the way Beyond Meat has (they can’t keep up with demand!) into making a tasty and convincing fake meat (too convincing for me, I will stay with my black beans,) and we need to stop being afraid of change. Our planet will not survive if we don’t change.

What are the chances of all this happening? I’m an optimist, but wow, this pushes my to the limits of my ability to Imagine, with sincere apologies to John Lennon. Until we reach this amazing space of kindness and caring about all living beings, what can we do?

We can do the best we can with what we have, as those of us in the trenches, up to our knees in spring mud, are doing every day.

One last thing . . . I hear so many people say they love animals more than people. Lest we forget, people are animals, too. We are always gentle with our animals because that’s how we teach them to be gentle. It should be the same for the way humans treat other humans. Beating people up for not believing exactly as you do will never change anyone’s mind. Never. It just pisses them off and makes them dig in harder. The best we can do is to do our best and set an example. Rational discussion without resorting to denigration is our greatest hope for finding common ground, and frankly, our dream world of compassion and caring will never happen if we can’t find a way to work together for the benefit of every living being on this planet.

And now, I kindly thank you for reading, but I’m out of time. Back to the muddy trenches . . .

Kathleen Schurman is caretaker to more animals than she cares to count. She and her husband founded Locket’s Meadow, an animal rescue and sanctuary in Bethany, CT, in 2000. The sanctuary is self-funded, but is a non-profit 501(c)3 and gratefully accepts donations. If you don’t agree with what we do, we don’t mind if you don’t donate. We will just keep on working to make it all work and keep our animals safe and happy while we dream of peace on Earth. Peace and blessings to all!

All Glamour All The Time

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Christopher Robin Update . . . or . . .

Mama’s wild ride with her fluffy, little boy, Chapter 10 . . . or maybe 11 . . . I’ve lost count . . .

I haven’t had an animal give me a run-for-my-money like Christopher Robin since the Sainted Ozzie Osboar. As I type this my fluffy little man is in his playpen across the kitchen table from me hooked up to an IV and getting fluids. He had been doing incredibly well, was actually quite frisky after recovering from his bout with pneumonia and was zipping around the yard like a three-legged champ. Then, on Wednesday, he seemed a little lethargic, which, because he’s Christopher Robin, sent me into hyper-vigilant-hovering mode.

On Thursday I started him on antibiotics and B vitamins hoping to see a rebound on eating and drinking. On Friday morning, he had not peed or pooped. I was on the phone with the vet the second they opened, and David and I drove him up for a visit about an hour and a half later. His blood test results were abysmal – serious liver and kidney issues, and everything else was a mess, as well. The guess is that he ate something toxic, which seems far-fetched because his diet is so limited by his lack of mobility and constant supervision, but it’s all we had, and maybe there was something foreign in his hay . . . so, Christopher Robin is currently on supportive care, all we can do, while we wait and see if that incredible will of his carries him forward.

He shows no signs of quitting, that’s for sure. This morning I walked into the kitchen and he did his wiggle-thing until I squatted and gave him his morning scratch before injecting, inspecting and hooking him up to his IV fluids, all of which he endures with good cheer; I have never seen his equal, and that’s saying something around this farm.

Last night I was struggling to locate something to hang his IV bag from, and all I could find was a nail which holds a ceramic sign we’d hung about 15 years ago, shortly after we almost lost my horse, Captain, to an accident. The horse on the tile looks surprisingly like my Captain, and the words above him read, “Never give up.” Of course. It’s our farm motto, since really, there is absolutely no reason we should still be hanging on, aside from sheer will on the parts of the animals, David and I. So, as long as Christopher Robin is up for being on this crazy ride called life, we will be here right alongside him. And now . . . back to the main activity of this day . . . hovering over my handsome, red man . . .

All Glamour All the Time

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Only on Locket’s Meadow . . . or . . .
A Tale of Two Puppies

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Gertrude Elizabeth

A friend, MaryBeth, posted a picture last week of a huge pile of newborn black puppies . . . and . . . were my eyes deceiving me . . . or was that really one, lone brown brindle? Forget the “aha!” moment. This was an “uh-oh” moment. A big one. Because this is Locket’s Meadow and the strangest things happen here, and I was sensing a curious plot twist. My plan was to ignore the puppy picture (because I’m getting old and tired,) but a few days went by and dammit, the puppies’ mama started talking to me and when a mama dog speaks, I always listen.

She told me she was clean and happy and she loved her babies. She showed me how dirty she’d been, how hungry, emaciated and scared . . . mostly, of course, she’d been terrified for the babies in her belly. She described the pain and itch of millions of fleas, and she let me know she was exhausted and anemic, but also content – very content, because she had her babies and she was clean, fed and so very grateful. She didn’t have enough milk but MaryBeth was supplementing the babies with bottles and they were thriving. Life was good.

I texted MaryBeth, because the mama puppy wanted her to know she was deeply grateful, and I learned the dog’s name was Allie. MaryBeth asked if I wanted to meet her later that day, and . . . well . . . yes . . .

I brought my husband along because of the tiny brown puppy in the giant pile of black puppies, which I will explain shortly.

I believe in reincarnation, and that our animals consistently come back to us. Over and over and over again. Currently we’ve been waiting on the return of my husband’s dog, Gertrude, and we made it very clear that she’d be the last “boomerang pet” – I’m 57 and my husband is 61 and we can’t keep this up forever, you know. Gertie was a boxer/pit, and she adored David. Before she died I told my husband to cut a deal with Gertie if he wanted her to return as it’s my experience that if you give an animal precise parameters regarding how to re-find you, they follow directions to THE LETTER.

David, of course, babbled about how Gertie could come back however she wanted, as long as she returned. He talked about, “Maybe this, maybe that . . .” until I finally yelled at him (I know, hard to believe) and told him he’d better come up with something concrete and fast.

“Fine!” he yelled back, flustered. “This time I want her to be male, brown, and she should come back like Ragano, and be born in the animal shelter.”

David meant she should be like Ragano as in “similar to” and have his perfect disposition, but that’s not actually what he said, so Gertrude took him at his word and literally CAME BACK LIKE RAGANO, or rather, as Ragano had originally arrived to us as the only brown dog in a big litter of black puppies born in a Milford shelter.

Hence . . . “Uh-oh . . .”

We went for a puppy visit that Saturday night and while I fawned over precious Allie (whomever adopts her will be one insanely lucky puppy parent,) my husband held the brown puppy who talked and squeaked a blue streak at him for a good ten minutes before falling asleep curled against David’s chest.

“His name is Gerard,” David said, teary-eyed, as he handed him back to Allie.

Which finally brings me to the point of this blog.

No really.

We’ve arrived.

Most Sundays on Locket’s Meadow we have a Spiritual Development workshop, and this past week we worked on animal communication. I’m always amazed by the participants and the insights they receive, but this week . . . well, one talented psychic, Joe, had a conversation with my dog Nessie, a jack/rat terrier, who told him she was deeply concerned about a huge pile of puppies that might not be getting enough milk. While I’m used to this kind of thing, it was still a while before I could pick my jaw up off the floor.

We believe that Locket’s Meadow is an experiment in what the world should be. All of us are entirely connected, animals and human alike. Think of God however you will, but the truth is, we are all God, or Spirit. Spirit is the life force within every last being on the planet (and in the universes,) from protozoa to the great blue whales. We are all exactly the same at our source, and because of that, every living being is connected, and IF WE CHOOSE we can all communicate with each other, and that includes those who are alive and those whose living vessel can no longer contain their bit of Spirit.

(Editorial comment: This means that OUR JOB ON THIS EARTH IS TO TREAT ALL OTHER LIVING CREATURES THE WAY WE WOULD LIKE TO BE TREATED BECAUSE WE LITERALLY ARE EACH OTHER!)

In any case, on Sunday evening I filled my husband in about the events of our class, and we laughed and said, “Only on Locket’s Meadow. . .”

Only on Locket’s Meadow do we plot the returns of our beloved pets, only on this farm do our pets follow our directions to the letter, only here would a little old Jack/rat terrier pick up on a “returning” dog and worry about him and his litter mates having enough to eat, despite the fact that Nessie hated Gertrude! And only here would an awakening psychic named Joe pick up on the entire complicated and brilliant circle of life and Spirit and love and unshakable, unbreakable connectedness. Because elsewhere, you know, this stuff is impossible . . .

Only on Locket’s Meadow.

Except . . . and the joke is on all of us . . . whether we like to believe it or not, this is what life is supposed to be everywhere on this planet, and if not for human ego, all living creatures would live in balance, connection and communication between all souls. The only difference here is that on Locket’s Meadow we try to recognize this every moment of every day and strive to live in harmony with the animals and each other. Do we screw up? Hell yes. All the time. I mean, this is an experiment, people. But . . . we recognize the value of this great experiment and, Spirit knows, we try and try until our hearts bleed from the effort.

Last night, MaryBeth texted that Allie’s milk had finally come in and the puppies no longer needed bottles. MaryBeth could sleep, Nessie could relax knowing Gerard would grow big and strong and come back to have another go-round with her and maybe finally get their little karma problem straightened out, and our little experiment here on Locket’s Meadow will keep chugging along.

And in seven weeks, right after New Years, Gerard will come home almost to the day that Ragano had first arrived all those years ago. Just. Like. Ragano.

OK.

So maybe there really is one thing that could only really happen here on Locket’s Meadow.

Welcome back, Gertrude/Gerard. Love will always attract love back to itself.

And may love return to all of you over and over again, wherever you might live on this amazing little planet. Because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Peace and Light.

 

A Presidential Case of PTSD . . . Or . . . time to turn off the news, Kathleen

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17426183_10155150958898799_302676436118734886_nYesterday, Ragano Hemingway, my young Australian shepherd, had a tummy ache complete with vomiting and diarrhea. I tried to talk myself down and wait 24 hours to see if he felt better, but my OCD got the better of me and I made a late afternoon appointment with his veterinarian in Milford. Ragano and I settled into the truck and I laid my right arm on the console; he rode shotgun and laid his head across my arm. My animals are always a comfort to me, and that day I thought he was letting me know he was going to be OK. But being Ragano, it was much more than that.

I have mild post-traumatic stress disorder . . . as if there is such a thing as a tiny dose of PTSD. I was a badly bullied child. I wouldn’t say I was the most bullied person in the world (as I will respectfully leave that title to those who did not survive the trauma) but it was to the point where I was frequently suicidal. When I was in the sixth grade, however, I was gifted with a stray dog named Gretchen who loved me best and gave me reason to live. When kids followed me home from school chanting “Schurman rots” while spitting at me and pulling my hair, I would march with my back ram-rod straight, absorbing the onslaught, waiting for the moment my dog would race to me, let me hold her tight and sob into her soft, brown fur; Gretchen is what kept me from marching straight to the gun rack in the basement and blowing my head off.

While my dog was there to comfort me, home wasn’t much better as I had a sibling who was just as tortuous, if not more so. “All the neighbors talk about you all the time – they all say you’re fat and ugly. They hate you.” Fat and ugly. Fat and ugly. Everyone hates you. EVERYONE HATES YOU. It was all too easy to believe. If not for my dog . . . who never noticed I was fat and ugly (I was actually very skinny, but if you told me so, I wouldn’t have believed you) I wouldn’t be here today.

Consequently, my adult life is now one endless battle on behalf of all animals, one of whom saved my young life a thousand times over . . . but that’s not what this story is about. It’s about bullies, PTSD and the events that trigger it.

No one can deny the President of the United States is a bully. Even his fans know this, and they insist it’s an admirable quality in a leader. I disagree, as I believe strength of character and integrity are far more commendable attributes for leadership, but I guess that’s just my humble opinion . . .

Everyone also knows one of Trump’s favorite bullying tactics is middle-school-variety name-calling. Elizabeth Warren finally had her DNA tested and it turns out “Pocahontas,” as the president has derisively tagged her, did have a Native American ancestor. Sure, it’s distant, probably about the same distance my kids have from the Native American in their paternal grandmother’s gene pool, yet it existed in Warren’s family lore as it does in my children’s (who think it’s pretty cool, and I am, I must admit, a little envious.) So yesterday, Warren announced she’d had a DNA test done and it was positive for Native American genes. Trump’s response was classic bully. “Who cares?” He laughed, then attacked her because it was distant, and of course, he reneged on his offer to donate a million dollars to charity if it turned out she was correct. Oh yes, and and he will continue to call her Pocahontas. The truth is, when up against a master bully, it doesn’t matter what you do; they are slippery little devils and they instantly find the next words or actions to torture their victims and keep them looking over their shoulders. Instead of actually living their lives, a bully’s victim is always watching for the next punch, the next ball of spittle . . .

(Why do you walk so straight, I was once asked by a bully . . . you’re so stiff, he said . . . I didn’t answer . . . I just pulled myself taller and walked faster . . . always steeling myself against the punch in the back . . .)

In any case, I made the mistake of watching Trump respond to Warren’s DNA results. He volleyed with a string of bullying techniques, then doubled down while his followers cheered his every utterance. Shortly after watching this, I drove to Milford, my childhood town, where in my youth I’d been treated to every bullying tactic Trump had just demonstrated, and then some. I hadn’t noticed my PTSD was flaring from the news, and dammit, out slithered my “inner bully.”

I began to picture myself as fat and ugly, I took a wrong turn in a town that I know like the back of my hand, then actually used my childhood nickname (Bird Nest for my uncontrollable, straw-colored hair) as I mocked myself for screwing up. It took two attempts to park my car in the only available spot in the lot. “Aaaaaaaah! Bird!!!” I heard my inner bully taunt me as my Ragano Hemingway pressed his face tighter into my arm; it was clear he’d noticed what was happening to me long before I did. I hauled my dumpy, ugly self up the stairs into the vet’s office without realizing the nasty turn my brain had taken until after I’d left the office with Ragano’s tummy meds in hand.

It took two turns to get the farm truck out of the narrow parking space.

“Aaaaaah! You can’t even drive! You suck! Birrrrrrd!” My inner bully was hitting her stride.

Ragano whined out loud, and I thought he was in pain, but then I realized he was trying to wake me up from my daytime nightmare – my PTSD was spiraling out of control and I was reliving my childhood, taking on the voices of my bullies and using them against myself. The combination of watching our president bully a woman on TV, plus my being in my childhood town, was more than my psyche could handle.

I stopped at the exit of the parking lot and leaned over to hug my dog and take a few deep breaths. OK. My dog loves me, my dog loves me, my dog loves me . . . over and over again until nothing else was in my head or heart. He firmly pressed his nose into my arm all the way home.

Animals have always saved me, and in return, I will always work to save and care for as many of them as I can. It’s the very least I can do and it’s my greatest mission in life. Last night Elizabeth Warren carried on with her own mission despite having the “most powerful man in the world” as her personal bully. I felt envious of her thick skin, but then I thought about it and I realized she was too passionate about helping others to have never actually been affected by the sting of a bully’s attack. My guess is Warren has come up against plenty of bullies, aside from Trump, and it only inspires her to work harder for those hurting and in need.

This morning I woke up and started caring for my animals, most of whom are either special needs or came from one hellhole or another of abuse, neglect or being in line for slaughter. This is my life. Would I be an animal rescuer if I hadn’t been tortured as a child? Who knows. My earliest thoughts were of loving animals, so perhaps it was my destiny even without having overdosed on bullies. Did overcoming adversity lead me to do this? I dunno about that, either. I don’t feel I’ve overcome anything, and I still waste way too much time and energy when my PTSD kicks in. And lately . . . wow . . . way too many reminders . . . too many triggers . . .

The name of our farm’s non-profit is Rescues Who Rescue, which has multiple interpretations. As in, who is rescuing whom? The animals are clearly rescued, but those of us who care for them have just as clearly been rescued in return. We like to think of Locket’s Meadow as a microcosm of what the world should be . . . a place where animals and humans are all equals, where we work together to care for each other and lift each other up, NEVER tear each other down. Can this translate to the real world? I dunno. I really don’t. Ragano Hemingway thinks it can, as do the rest of our animals. So I will continue to plug away, right alongside them.

We are up against one hulluva huge wall, that’s for sure.

But if my babies believe it can be done, so will I, PTSD and bullies be damned.

Kathleen Schurman and her husband, “Poor David,” own Locket’s Meadow Animal Sanctuary in Bethany, CT, where if anyone bullies any of their beloved animals they are immediately thrown out on their keisters. 

The Vegan Catch 22 . . . or . . . seriously, what do we do with all the horses?

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kudira-about-3(This blog is in response to a small volley of attacks I received from some vegans who believe they know the “solution” to horses. I know for a fact they do not, because for the past 17 years I have been in the thick of active horse rescue as well as providing sanctuary for those animals deemed “useless” to society. Even so, I don’t know the solution to horses . . .)

First, here’s the quote that everyone is having so much fun twisting around in which I’m clearly talking about me. “Judge me when you have the option of living a cushy life of restaurants and Broadway plays but instead choose to spend $10,000 a month on hay and grain, $2,000 a month on farrier bills, who knows how much on vet bills (anywhere from $500 to $5,000.)” This was our choice. My husband had expected a lifestyle of restaurants and Broadway plays and perhaps nice furniture with no teeth/claw marks. We make a lot of money, more than most people. This is little more than a fact. My husband didn’t expect to have to work from before dawn ‘til after dusk and seldom have a nickel for entertainment. He didn’t expect to spend every dime on hay, grain, worm paste, farriers, fencing, etc. But I made my choice, told him that’s what came with me, and he came along for the rocky ride and fell in love with it, and with the animals. (He claims he’d already fallen in love with me, and for that he has paid dearly.)

I really don’t know if you get to go to Broadway plays, but if you do, you lucky sot and I feel small pangs of envy.

The truth is, I’m human. I miss going to plays. I miss concerts. I miss NYC. I miss travel. I miss living in a nice house, and by that I mean one with no holes or mold. But I know the difference I make and I will never choose to take anything away from the animals in favor of something for myself. I’ve been this way for all of my 57 years and I can’t change. Contort my words to try to make me an elitist of me if it makes you feel better, I actually don’t care. I have too much work to do and not enough of an ego to worry about anyone’s opinion of me.

Second: Horses are a distinct problem that most people can’t fathom. You can argue semantics on paper all you want, but I live in the real world and in this world horses die horrible deaths, terrified, knowing what’s coming, hit in the head with a bolt gun that sometimes stuns them, sometimes doesn’t. Hanging upside down with a hook through a back leg, desperate and screaming, watching as the horses ahead of them in line are killed. THIS IS MY REALITY. THIS IS THEIR REALITY. It sucks.

The majority of the horses who die in this manner are unable to work anymore and are sent to auction, which more often than not means slaughter. Here’s a miniscule list of some we’ve rescued from this fate:

Amigo, a retired police horse (even men in uniform are not safe!)

Hero, a horse who got bored with being attached to a live merry-go-round

Lucille, a PMU mare who didn’t get pregnant

Captain (and dozens of other males from the PMU industry) a PMU foal from Canada who was clearly useless, as males can’t be bred to supply estrogen-rich urine for the Premarin industry

Annie, a 10-month pregnant mustang who was seconds away from being loaded onto a double-decker tractor-trailer with a one-way ticket to Canada

And several hundred more. Aside from a few exceptions, they were all going to die because they were useless to humanity as anything but meat.

This is reality. Most of them couldn’t be ridden so their only fate was a gruesome, painful, terrifying death.

If I am being realistic (and being a Capricorn, it’s all I know,) I realize that we are one of the few facilities that will keep horses that can’t be ridden. We have a LOT of them. I also know that even a well-trained horse will go to slaughter and all it takes is a reversal in fortune to send a horse to auction. In 2015 the USA provided more than 125,000 horses to the meat industry. In 1991, that number was 345,700. These are the statistics that crush my heart and soul. What can we realistically do about this?

Currently, we have to work within the concrete realm of reality. Untrained horses are meat. Period. Like dogs, horses have been bred to be human-dependent. The damage is done, and it’s too late to fix it. THEY HAVE BEEN BRED TO ENJOY HUMAN INTERACTION AND YES, THEY HAVE BEEN BRED SO THAT THE VAST MAJORITY OF THEM LOVE THE CONNECTION OF RIDING WITH HUMANS. Over tens of thousands of years, humans chose the horses best suited to this activity and bred them to make lots more just like them. When treated well, they are enjoying the activity as much as the humans riding them. Sorry, to a “vegan” it’s an ugly truth, but it’s humanity’s own fault. Also like dogs, an untrained horse is a deadly dangerous thing. We bred them to need training, and now we have to train them so they don’t hurt anyone and therefore, be killed for meat. It’s a classic catch 22; you can’t break these rules.

The world is what it is. We can attack people over semantics or we can deal in reality and actually make a difference to these animals. As I’ve said, most horses are perfectly fine with being ridden as WE MADE THEM THAT WAY. On our farm, those who don’t want to work, don’t. We have chronically lame horses, a horse who rears, truly ancient horses and a horse named Bobby who was so abused by the Amish he suffers from PTSD and is deadly dangerous (but we know how to handle him . . . and love him to pieces . . . and so he lives.) We have a horse named Teddy who doesn’t like paddocks so he walks around loose all day. Whatever they want, they can have.

If anything happens to us, our veterinarian knows what to do. Those who can’t be ridden and have no place to go will be gently euthanized; we won’t take the chance of them going to the horror that is slaughter, and I know oh-so-well how little space there is for “useless” horses. Our lesson ponies, however, have a chance. Their new humans will be carefully and painstakingly screened to make sure they are cared for their entire lives, even after they are retired from riding.

A trained horse is a safer horse for humanity and themselves, and we work hard to not fail any of ours.

And this begs the questions for the militant vegans; what exactly are we to do with all of these horses if we can’t train them? Because THEY ARE ALREADY HERE. IT’S TOO LATE. What alternate plan is there for the 6.9 million horses in the United States alone that annually can each cost anywhere from $7,000 to, well INFINITY number of dollars to maintain? Who will fund this? Where is the land to turn them loose when we currently don’t have enough for our wild mustangs (damn those ranchers who took it all to graze cattle . . .) WHAT’S THE PLAN? My husband and I are two of the very few who will fork out over a hundred thousand bucks a year to take care of 20 retired horses (it’s another $100,000 plus for the rest of the animals.) The only “realistic” option for “true vegans”  is to find a way to convince people to stop breeding them. Instead of animal lovers attacking each other over words and titles and spewing their brand of righteousness and judgment, our greatest opportunity exists in completely eliminating the animals that humanity worked so hard to create by no longer creating them (and that includes domesticated dogs who also must be trained or they will die.) All attempts to curb the breeding of domesticated animals up to this point have failed and I assume it will be the same with horses. Do I advocate annihilating horses and dogs? No. But I do advocate responsible breeding and, well, that’s another hopeless mess. If I think about it I cry, so, instead, I work . . .

And so, being a pragmatic plant-based eater, I will continue to do my absolute best and dedicate my life to working within reality. My horses will be gently trained, as they are at every reputable horse rescue aside from those for wild mustangs. (The farm animal rescues that don’t take horses make that choice because they know horses must be trained, exercised, shod and carefully monitored for health and that they are far more expensive and labor-intensive than other animals.) We will continue to have a small lesson program that, by the way, doesn’t make enough money in a year to support even a single horse, but does keep our horses fit and trained so they may possibly avoid a bolt to the head before being bled out. I will always take into account their likes, desires and dislikes and I will allow them that autonomy. This is how I raised my children, and this is how I raise my animal babies . . . we do our very best with what we have and keep striving to find a way to do more.

If being a vegan means living in a fantasyland of useless words and unattainable goals, I’m out. Titles mean nothing to me. Wordy rhetoric means nothing. Lofty and idealistic plateaus are useless if they don’t make a difference to animals in the real world. Saving animals, however, is all that I am. Providing for the needs of this collection of otherwise rejected beings is my greatest goal in life.

I haven’t eaten meat in 36 years, dairy in at least 20, and what I know about eggs is that they taste nasty . . . but if saving horses in the best possible way that currently exists precludes me from being a vegan, alas, I’m not a vegan and it doesn’t matter to me at all. Because above all else, I am an animal rescuer. It’s the essence of my being, the essence of my earthly job, and I will be among the lucky few who will die with no regrets.

So go ahead and judge me – I mean, you will no matter what I have to say. I’m not worried about your words. What I worry about is the animals, where the limited energy and resources of animal lovers is being spent, and what we can realistically do to help them right now.

(. . . That said, I return to my regularly scheduled program of shoveling, training and lamb physical therapy. I hope any ensuing conversation is productive for the animals and not divisive for the humans.)