It took two years for me to get comfortable with the idea of being intuitive. Like most sensitive people, I am often a scared little rabbit about things. To say, "Yes, this is real. I am talking with animals" was to admit that I have been given special powers and gifts of insight. It's easier and takes far less courage to stay small and eat at the crumbs of life than to get big and take your spot at the table.
A few years ago, I adopted a horse named Bert.
Bert was an old Missouri Fox Trotter. He had injured his back right leg, and instead of getting it treated or retiring him, his original owners kept working him. His other leg started to go. So his owners stuck him away somewhere until they took their cattle to slaughter. They brought him too.
While they fattened their beef for slaughter, they didn't think much about feeding Bert. By the time he hit the feedlot, he was down to about 650 lbs. The group that rescued him didn't know if he'd last the night. They paid the feedlot owner about $300 for him. He sold him to them "by the pound".
The rescuers considered humanely euthanizing him, but something in him made them stop. They nursed him back from the brink and by the time I adopted him, he weighed close to 1000 lbs. He was still skinny.
Bert was my first horse. I knew nothing about horses, but I wanted one. I had always wanted one. There was something about his face that spoke to me.
The first vet said that he could probably recover with exercise. The second vet, the one with the experience in lameness issues, said that Bert had blown his suspensory ligament, and that there was no coming back from that. He gave him two months to live, and a "lifetime' subscription of painkillers.
This is not a story about a miraculous recovery. This is a story about how God will bring you a saint in a crippled horse body.
Bert put himself to work at the little farm where I boarded him. His companions were an ancient blind mule and two goats, and a couple of cats.
Each day, Bert would help Zeb the mule down the hill to the pasture. A wide path had been cut into the side of the hill. Bert limped down to the bottom of the hill and then called up to Zeb, who would follow Bert's voice down the hill. They would do this Marco-Polo routine daily. Then, when Bert needed to rest his bad legs, he'd lie down in the pasture, and that old blind mule would stand guard over him.
When one of the goats got sick, Bert spent a week leaning his head over the stall wall, tending to her spirits.
That's just how Bert was. He didn't care about his problems. It was difficult to see him limp around on his three good legs, resting his weight on walls and fences and trees. His eyes would squeeze in pain.
I would ask Bert, 'Is it time?" and he would say, "NO!" (or sometimes "Hell no!" or sometimes, "Go away, I'm not talking to you about this.") His voice was emphatic and loud. He had work to do here.
The farm owner, Suzy, is a reiki master. She spent a lot of time with Bert, giving him reiki and love and supporting him. They had a very close relationship. Both Suzy and I would try to slow Bert down. We worried over him like mother hens.
Bert would roll his eyes and sigh.
"Can't you see I'm busy here?" I thought I'd hear him say.
Bert had the greatest eye roll.
He spent his first summer and winter at Suzy's farm. In February, we rented a farm and moved Bert to it. He was very sad to leave his friends.
The previous summer, I had adopted another horse, Ed, and had boarded him at a different location. I still didn't know much about horses. I didn't understand that you needed to keep horses separate from one another until they got to know each other. This is especially true when one horse is young and dominant and the other is old and crippled. In hindsight, my next step could have been a real disaster.
I took Bert off the trailer first, and Ed hopped out behind him. Ed was not going to be left on that trailer by himself! They took to each other like peas and carrots. Ed never chased or bit or hurt Bert. He let Bert eat out of his grain bucket. From the start they were the best of friends. They acted like they had known each other for a long time.
Bert hobbled around our 10-acre farm. Another horse, Pippa, came over from across the street to live with us. I continued to worry about his leg. He continued to tell me he had work to do.
One day, I went to halter Pippa. I wanted to work on her lunging. Pippa was having none of it. I followed Pippa around. Bert followed me, trying to get his head in the halter.
"Buddy," I said. "I'm not going to let you lunge. Your leg can't take it."
He wouldn't take no for an answer. He wasn't desperate about it, just determined to do his part.
"Come on." I heard him say, clearly. "Come on, just let me show her."
I was surprised to hear him so clearly. I put the green halter on his big head, and nickered at him. He walked around the circle until Pippa noticed him, and then he popped up into a foxtrot! He foxtrotted around the circle twice, and then slowed back down to a walk.
I took his halter off. "Oh Bert!" I said. That's about all I could manage to say to him.
He limped off to join his friends, saying to me, "I've got a lot to teach her yet."
That was in March. Bert's other back leg gave out in May. He couldn't make it to the water trough during the last week, so we brought him buckets of water and feed wherever we found him. He was upright, but he was so sad. His time had come.
The night before, I said to him, "I'm so sorry, Bert." Bert said, "It's all right."
The next day, as the vet pulled up, Pippa and Ed blocked me from taking Bert. They wouldn't let me halter him and lead him over to the vet's truck. Finally Bert just did it on his own.
As the medicine took effect, Bert had a split second of panic about his back legs, and tensed his body in a way where his legs buckled down awkwardly behind him. It was not a graceful end. We laid him out, as best we could and Ed and Pippa sniffed him sadly.
That night, there was a full moon, and I went to visit his body in the moonlight. His face looked so different. his eyes were full and relaxed. I got a glimpse of what he must have looked like when he wasn't in pain.
Now, Bert is in heaven, and I call on him from time to time. I don't want to lose my visiting privileges, so I just visit when I really need him. He is happy and complete and whole and let me just say, he's very busy. He's getting ready to come back to earth. He's coming back as a black and white paint. He says that I'll know it's him when I meet him again. I don't think that he will be my horse this time.
When I told Bert that I was writing about him, he said, 'I hope that you're not going to just make people cry with your story. Geez, I had good friends and I did a lot of good and felt good from it. Life is good, Bridget. I hope people don't just see the pain of it. Life is good."
And that's the thing. Bert didn't start doing good works when his leg failed him. I saw the tail end of a 20-year life of purpose-filled living. He woke up every day with an urge to make life easier and better for his friends.
You can't live with a horse like Bert and continue to avoid your gifts. So, after he died, I started talking with animals. I asked friends for pictures and questions and validated my results. I tried to leave things better than I found them.
I was lucky to have an obvious example and an obvious gift. Every one of us has a purpose here. I don't know what yours is, but deep down inside you do! Quit eating the crumbs and sit down at the table, my friend. The world will be better for it, and you will be too!
Pippa (the paint), Bert and Ed
