a crippled Morgan --
would anyone ever love them? CHINA GROVE -- Out in the country, down
a dead-end road, lived a sick and lonely horse, a palomino with
straw-colored hair.
She had no one to comb her scraggly mane. No
one to pick mud from her hooves. No one to bring her in from the
cold rain. For 16 years, her owner kept her tied to the ground with
a twisted piece of cord. If she moved, the rope tangled her legs.
The man sometimes brought her hay and water,
but he often didn't. The horse was so hungry, her ribs stuck out in
stiff lines. Stranded in the field, she grew angry. When someone
came near her, she tried to bite.
Then one summer morning, a woman named Joanie
Benson came to take the straw-colored palomino to a new home -- a
ranch where people nursed neglected horses back to health.
You're going to a good place, Joanie whispered
to her.
The horse pinned back her ears in anger.
You'll have hay and fresh water, Joanie said,
stepping closer.
The horse bared her teeth.
Joanie unhooked her tether. It won't be bad
for you any longer.
CHAPTER 2
A little girl who loved horses
Joanie Benson fell in love with animals when
she was a little girl. She rescued birds that fell from nests,
raised squirrels and raccoons.
But she loved horses the most. In fourth
grade, Joanie and her best friend spent hours reading horse stories
and wishing for a horse of their own.
One day, when Joanie found out about a riding
stable near her home in New Jersey, she hopped on her bike and
pedaled 16 miles to visit. In one stall, a black horse named Duke
towered above her, stomping and snorting. Joanie watched in wonder,
her thumbs hooked in her jeans pockets.
I'll ride him, Joanie said. The stable boys
collapsed laughing.
Joanie didn't give up. Put a saddle on him,
she persisted. So they did.
Joanie clambered onto Duke's back and hunkered
down on his neck. He bucked and reared, then galloped through a
briar patch and ran under trees. After 45 minutes of sprinting, the
horse stopped in a field, exhausted.
Joanie slid from the saddle and wiped his
sweat with a fistful of grass. Completely lost, she climbed back up
and relied on Duke to find the way back.
When they arrived at the stable, she heard a
commotion. Workers had saddled horses to search for the girl they
feared was dead or hurt. The stable owner was shouting. When she saw
Joanie, she took her into the house. She gave her a glass of iced
tea and dabbed blood from her bramble scratches.
The stable owner said Duke was scheduled to go
on the auction block because they hadn't been able to tame him. Now
he could stay, and he was Joanie's to ride.
CHAPTER 3
A safe,
loving place
That was a long time ago, nearly half a
century.
Today, Joanie has silver hair and three grown
children. She lives in a tumbledown house on her ranch in China
Grove. Instead of just one horse to love, she has 40.
They come to her with rain rot and rickets,
moon blindness and worms.
A few of the horses had kind owners -- people
who tried to give good care, then decided they didn't have enough
time or money.
But some owners were mean. It breaks Joanie's
heart every time she sees their sorry horses.
Dakota, 12, a chestnut-colored American
Saddlebred, was so feeble when he arrived at the ranch, he stumbled
whenever he walked.
Queen, 32, with a black mane and tail, had
been a brood mare since she was 4. She's a bit grouchy.
Maya, a Morgan, has foot problems. She spends
her days lying on the ground; her friend Whisper stands by while she
naps.
Joanie and 20 volunteers serve the starved
horses beet pulp and rice bran, molasses and yogurt, special feed
and supplements. They fill tubs with fresh water and make sure
there's plenty of hay.
Still, four horses had to be destroyed this
summer.
One was too weak to keep food down.
Sprinkles, a 30-year-old mixed pony, had
malformed intestines that could have ruptured.
Cheyenne, 24, a Tennessee walker, had nasal
cancer.
Angel, a 51-year-old pony, suffered a broken
leg after a bigger horse kicked her. Angel had been in a carnival,
billed as "the world's smallest horse," before arriving at
the ranch. She liked microwaved carrots.
Joanie's ranch is home to the Horse Protection
Society of North Carolina -- and every horse there has a story.
CHAPTER 4
A happy reunion at last
In the old log barn, inside a stall with a
wooden door, is a dark brown horse that makes funny faces when she
wants breakfast.
When she arrived, they named her Nightshade.
Her owner hadn't fed her properly. At the ranch, she was gaining
weight, but was curiously standoffish. She came close only if Joanie
had a feed bucket in hand.
Everyone wondered why she was so sullen.
Then one morning two years ago, Joanie got an
e-mail. "Please don't think I'm crazy," it read. "But
I think you may have my horse."
The message came from Kim Wrenn, a 45-year-old
systems analyst in Raleigh. For seven years, Kim owned a horse named
Irish, but sold her when she went to college. She knew Irish had a
good home at least until 1985. Then she lost contact.
When Kim was helping a sister-in-law adopt a
rescued horse, she found the Horse Protection Society Web site. A
photograph of Nightshade came up on her computer screen.
Oh my God, she thought. That's Irish.
For a month, she studied the picture, seeing
whether it matched her memory. Finally, she e-mailed Joanie.
My horse would be about 31 or 32 now, she
said.
We think Nightshade is 29 or more, Joanie
wrote back.
She had a shooting star on her face.
Nightshade has a star on her face, Joanie
replied.
Kim decided to visit one Sunday afternoon.
Joanie met her at the gate. Whatever happened in the past has made
Nightshade mistrustful, she told Kim. But if she's yours, she'll
remember you.
Kim walked into the pasture where four horses
grazed. Three came to her right away, wanting the red apple in her
hand. The fourth, a dark brown horse, stayed at the far fence, head
down.
Kim called. "Irish!"
The horse raised its head.
"Irish!"
Slowly, the horse walked across the pasture
and laid her head on Kim's shoulder.
CHAPTER 5
Gold Rush
gets adopted
Last year, a quarter horse the color of milky
coffee arrived from Anson County. An animal cruelty investigator had
filed a complaint: The owner was dumping feed into one pan and
letting his goats, horse and chickens fight over who got to eat.
At the ranch, the skinny quarter horse looked
blankly at each volunteer as they took turns suggesting new names.
Marigold sounds nice, someone said. The mare
flattened her ears.
A boy recommended Gold Rush. Joanie turned to
the horse. How do you like Gold Rush? she asked.
The animal perked up its ears.
But do you really like it? another
volunteer asked.
The horse nodded.
This summer, after Gold Rush had grown
stronger, Jay and Claire Collie filled out an application and paid
$500 to become her foster parents. Inside Joanie's house, they sat
at the cluttered kitchen table, discussing horse care.
"We love seeing pictures and we ask that
you do a video once a year," Joanie said.
"She'll have a nice easy life," Jay
said.
"That's what they need," Joanie
replied. "They've had enough bad stuff."
When it came time for the Collies to leave for
their farm in Wake County, Joanie walked across the pasture to bring
Gold Rush in. The horse wouldn't budge. She nickered and her best
friend, Teton, trotted over. They stood heads together for a few
minutes, then Teton followed as Gold Rush ambled toward the gate.
Claire wrapped the horse's legs in protective
white bunting, loaded her into a bright red trailer and latched the
squeaky door. Joanie waved as Jay drove off.
"Be a good girl, Gold Rush," she
called out. "You be good, girl."
CHAPTER 6
Patty and the palomino
Volunteers at the ranch always worry about new
horses, but this one -- the straw-colored palomino -- was more
pitiful than any they'd seen before. Her tail hung caked with mud.
Her hair grew in patches. Rope burns scarred her legs.
She had lived at the ranch for several days
but still wouldn't let anyone come close. Joanie assigned the
horse's care to her daughter, Patty.
Patty was a newcomer, too, that summer 10
years ago. While living in Seattle, she had fallen in love and quit
college only to find that her boyfriend was abusive. She saved money
from her paychecks, bought a Greyhound bus ticket and arrived at her
mother's front door.
It seemed to Joanie that Patty and the
straw-colored palomino needed the same things: good food, quiet
times and someone they could trust.
You and that horse need to fix each other,
Joanie said.
Patty named her Sundance. Each day, she walked
to the barn with a treat -- a ripe banana, an apple, a bunch of
sweet grapes.
At first, Sundance panicked if Patty came too
close.
But after many visits, she finally let Patty
touch her mane. Another day, she let her rest a hand on her back.
Then she let her rub ointment on her sore legs.
For exercise, the horse shuffled across the
barnyard with Patty walking beside her, an arm on her back for
assurance. Each day, that's how they walked: Patty next to Sundance,
one arm draped over her back. If Patty lifted her hand, Sundance
stopped, frozen.
The horse that had been tied for 16 years was
slowly learning to walk.
In early July that year, Patty was ready to
return to school. She told Sundance she was leaving, then they
walked to the pond.
Back in the barnyard, Joanie heard a shrill
whinny. She looked across the field in time to see Sundance toss her
head.
Patty dropped her arm from her back.
Go, girl, she whispered.
Sundance ran.
