Bessie the Wonder Horse
For nearly 40 years, this amazing animal was a beloved member of the family
It was a hot sunny day in August of 1927, perfect for cutting hay on my grandparents’ farm in the Swan River Valley of Manitoba. My father, Fred, then ten years old, and his younger brother, George, had been sent by my grandma to pick wild raspberries along the creek line near the meadow. They had been given strict instructions not to go near the spot where my grandpa was cutting hay with a mower and a team of horses.
As the day wore on, and the monotony of picking raspberries increased, my dad impulsively decided to run across the meadow to see his father. As he approached my grandpa through the long grass, he was oblivious to the danger as he stepped in front of the horses. Grandpa was preoccupied with controlling the height of the mower blade and steering the horses. He was totally unaware of my dad’s presence until it was too late. By the time he managed to halt the horses, the mower blade had severed my dad’s left leg below the knee leaving it badly mangled.
Isolated as they were, my grandma first attempted to treat the wound herself. Fever and infection, however, quickly forced them to transport him to the Swan River Hospital some 15 miles away. For the next few days, Dad’s temperature hovered at around 104°F and there was a real worry that he would not survive.
Penicillin had not yet been discovered to treat the infection. The onset of gangrene necessitated an urgent decision. If delayed, the gangrene would soon spread above his knee. Therefore, the decision was made to amputate his leg below the knee to prevent it spreading upwards. To that end, my dad was to wear an artificial limb for the remaining 81 years of his life.
In the years that followed, my dad had to get used to wearing a prosthesis, having his youthful mobility greatly reduced, and having to overcome the trauma that this tragic accident caused.
Two years later, Grandpa decided to purchase a pony so that Dad could ride wherever he could not walk. Grandpa purchased a young buckskin beauty named Bessie.
While growing up on the farm, Bessie developed a reputation as a fierce competitor. While running with other horses, she would not let them pass. She would simply speed up to stay in the lead. My Uncle George, by then a teenager, used to take her to the July 1st races in Bowsman, where she would win him money. Competing often against bigger horses, prize money and betting made the day-long trip worth his while.
By the time my parents married in 1943, Bessie had reached the distinguished age of 16 years.
During those years, she had served my dad well as his transportation and reliable companion.
As my dad grew older, the car became the more common form of travel.
Thus, Bessie became a companion to our growing family. As young boys, we often hitched her to a toboggan in the winter to take her for outings, or to visit the neighbours. She was always a gentle and even-tempered horse that we were never nervous to be around.
Modern Technology
The tractor was now taking over as the workhorse on the farm and keeping 16 horses was becoming more of an expense than an asset. My dad decided that the best thing to do was have the older ones killed and sold for fox meat. To him, that meant the time had come to put Bessie down.
When he informed my mom of his decision, her reaction
was decided and determined as it usually was. She replied that there was no way Bessie was going to be killed. She reminded my dad that Bessie had been an integral part of his life for more than 20 years, and she had earned the right to live as long as she could. As often happened, Dad relented when faced with Mom’s determined opposition.
Two years later, for reasons not clear to me, Dad had Bessie bred to a thoroughbred stallion. In the spring, she gave birth to a healthy male colt. She was now 25 years old.
Meet Buster
Over the next two years, the dapple-grey colt named Buster grew to be a fiery young stallion patiently cared for by his mother.
My dad then decided it was time to break him to saddle. My dad had spent all his life around horses and had broken many to ride over the years. This was not an unusual feat for many young men of his era, however, he did it while wearing an artificial limb. My dad never bemoaned his fate, nor did he expect any concessions in life. He never even listed it as a physical disability on his driver’s licence. It was simply a non-consideration.
One warm summer afternoon, I watched from our living room window as Dad led Buster out to the meadow across from our house. This was the same meadow where Dad had been “broken” as a ten-year-old boy. Buster was to prove to be a fair match for my dad. Before the afternoon was out, he had bucked Dad off at least twice. Just as determined,
Bessie at the trough near the cattle shed. my dad always remounted, and finally he was able to ride him erratically back to our yard. Only later that night did my mom discover that he had cracked three ribs during the day’s events.
Buster, however, proved to be a proud horse. He was always difficult for us boys to handle. On one occasion, he dumped my older brother off in the field. My parents decided that he was too dangerous for us boys to ride. My dad then sold him to a chuckwagon crew at the annual Northwest Roundup in Swan River. His new owner used him as a steed for the outriders in the races.
The next fateful event in Bessie’s life was a cold day in February when she was now 32 years old. My younger brother was late leaving for school that day. As usual, Bessie was standing by the pasture fence adjacent to our yard hoping to get an apple treat. As he had done before, my brother simply climbed on Bessie, and without any bridle, began riding her across the pasture to our one-room country school house. On this day, however, the snow blanketed the pasture and, urged on by my brother, Bess had stepped into a badger’s hole. She went down as the bone cracked. Her left front leg was broken.
My brother ran back home leaving Bessie lying in the pasture. My dad and older brother hooked our John Deere tractor to a stone boat and went to get her. Lifting her onto the stone boat, they then held her up and managed to get her home to our cattle shed.
My dad came to the house
and called the vet. At her age, it seemed apparent to him that Bessie’s ultimate fate was now sealed. Even the chances of a young healthy horse recovering from a broken leg were slim.
When the vet finally arrived, he merely confirmed my dad’s thoughts, and my mom’s worst fears. She was, nevertheless, undaunted. Mom insisted that even if there was only a remote chance, Bessie was to have that chance rather than be put down. It seemed likely that my mom had at best given Bessie a stay of execution.
The problem then was how to keep Bessie off her broken leg in order to see if it could heal. My dad soon devised a plan. Bess was stood up in the corner of the cattle shed and two planks were used to hold her upright against the wall. Her broken leg was extended outside on the lower plank so that she could not put pressure on it. The plank also served as a support for her weight so that she could rest on top of it. According to the vet, she was to be kept in that position for the next six weeks if there was even a remote chance her leg would heal.
For the next six weeks, Bess remained in the cattle shed stationary against the wall. She was fed hay and given water and had only the company of about 20 cattle to keep her warm. My brothers and I took turns checking on her and throwing a blanket over her on the really cold nights.
On a bright sunny Saturday in late March, the day had come to see if Bessie’s leg had healed.
My entire family went out to the cattle shed area to watch and wait. Only my dad and older brother went into the shed while the rest of us waited anxiously outside. We could hear the boards that held Bessie being pounded off of her, and then foreboding silence. Suddenly, and to our joy, Bessie shot out of the darkness of the shed running at full gallop. She took off down the pasture running like a fool. We couldn’t get her to stop running. Finally, my brother mounted our other horse and managed to get a rope on her before she stopped. She was soaking wet and had to be taken into the barn and dried off.
For most of the rest of her life, Bessie continued to winter in the pasture adjacent to our yard. She was fed hay and water every day, but at least, she was free to wander as she pleased.
My mom had the vet come out every fall to file her teeth so that she could still chew. In her final two years, she was stabled in a stall in the cow barn for the winter to keep her out of the cold wind.
Fortunately, I had come home from university for Christmas that year. On Boxing Day, in Bessie’s 39th year, my dad came to the house to tell my mom that he had found Bess lying dead in her stall. My mom’s reaction seemed strange at the time. There were no tears or cries of anguish, but rather almost a smile of satisfaction and relief. Bess had indeed died when she was ready—of old age.
A fire was lit to heat the frozen ground, and the next day Bess was taken to a grave site at the far end of our pasture. The entire family was there and she was buried in a manner befitting her recognition as a treasured member of our family.