Fresh Mercies

After the loss of a beloved old mare, a woman finds a new source of goodness in a very different form.

An observant visitor to our little barn might notice the odd mix of old and new: Fresh boards and shiny gates fitted to weatherworn posts. Colorful new feed pans set beside the old hay trough. New fences crisscrossing the pasture, breaking up once-larger sections. And in the corner of the far pasture, a small garden---dormant now in midwinter---marks the grave of a dear four-legged friend.

The silver-sprinkled chestnut face no longer waits to be let out of the paddock each morning. Instead, two small, long-eared ones---one gray and one black---peer through the bars of the gate.

For many, 2020 will be remembered as a year of hardship and loss. For me, it was those things but also a year of a different kind of loss. It was also a year of new beginnings and fresh mercies.

On a bright July day more than 14 years ago, a chestnut mare (not silver-flecked then) stepped into our barn and began a journey with me. That journey ended on a cloudless June morning in 2020, as I rubbed her shoulder one last time and told her yet again what a good girl she was. Grief choked my voice so I never managed to say “I love you,” but I knew that she knew, because I’d told her so a million times over those many years.

I’d had no idea, when she first came to us, that Ginger would be that one special “horse of a lifetime.” Our relationship got off to a rocky start: Not only was she moving to a new home, but she’d just had a foal weaned. Needless to say, she was one moody, stressed-out mare.

But over time, we formed a bond unlike any I’d previously had with a horse. She was sensitive but sensible, expressive but trustworthy. She might march over to the round pen gate when she wanted our ride to be over, but then she’d walk off again when I made it clear that we needed to continue. She might pull on the lead rope to suggest (strongly) that she be allowed to graze instead of do groundwork, but if I ever fell while leading her---which occasionally happened because I have a disability---she would stop and stand until I got up. She matched my steps when we walked together, let me lean on her during grooming sessions, did her best in everything, and always watched out for me.

Even when age started taking its toll and I no longer did much with Ginger besides grooming her and simply hanging out with her, she was an anchoring presence and an ever-giving teacher. Her passing left me disoriented, with a huge void in my life.

I’d already decided that if I brought home any four-legged creatures after her, they would be miniature donkeys. Now using a wheelchair, I needed something smaller and easier to care for than a full-sized horse. Plus, I’d heard how gentle and fun those little long ears were. And why not try something a little different, but still sort of “horse”?

On a bright July day a month after Ginger’s passing, a little gray-dun jenny stepped off a trailer and into my heart. With her adorable face, exuberant gamboling, ability to turn anything and everything into a toy or scratching post, and her desire to be wherever her people were, Dulcie brought no end of smiles and laughter.

Yet sometimes, in quieter moments, I caught myself feeling frustrated that Dulcie couldn’t fill the void I still felt. I was easily discouraged by delays or glitches in our progress---something I hadn’t had to deal with in years. And when we did make progress, I felt less eager to move forward than I should

have, as though my enthusiasm for training had left with Ginger.

Often, I wished the old mare were still here to support me and to serve as an example for my youngster. It wasn’t that I expected Dulcie to replace Ginger. That wasn’t possible. And it wasn’t that donkeys are so different from horses. It was simply that Dulcie--- and soon thereafter my second miniature donkey, Tobin---seemed destined to play a completely different role in my life.

Ginger, a veteran lesson horse, had come to me ready and able to step up as my partner in the horse world and in life. She made up for my mistakes with her experience, and needed little from me besides affection and care. Dulcie and Tobin, a yearling and weanling respectively, needed those things and more: guidance, a solid education, and an eye for their potential.

I was new to donkeys; they were new to life. They felt---and still feel---more like my children than my comrades.

And I’m learning that that’s completely okay. We’re still building our relationship, just as Ginger and I had to. Our challenges are just different. I’d gotten so used to having a “finished” bond that I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to start one and that the process is half the fun.

Now I look forward to the new lessons we will learn together, new adventures that even Ginger and I never got the chance to share. I’m sure Dulcie and Tobin will have lessons of their own to teach me---children are like that.

And thanks to Ginger, I’m much more prepared for such a journey than I was 14 years ago.

As our bond grows, the day will come when we’ll work as a team, when they’ll repond to my subtlest cues and match my every step. When they’ll watch out for me as much as I try to watch out for them.

In the meantime, they’re already helping me heal.