HELLO GENTLE READERS,
We published this story over a year ago, but with new readers, thought we’d publish it again. We hope you enjoy it. It’s one of our favorites.
Last year, along about March or so, my son went out to give the horses their morning feeding. A few minutes later he came running into the house, hysterical, saying Chessie was dying. I grabbed my shoes and jacket and ran outside (still in my jammies) to find out what was going on.
Now Chessie was one of seven horses that we had rescued the year before. The others were all pretty much up to weight and in fairly good health. Chessie, on the other hand, was a 20+ year old former show horse, and seemed to never have had the chance to learn to socialize within a herd, so her survival instincts weren’t as solid as the other horses. At 17 hands(68″) and solid black, other than the small star on her forehead, she was the perfect example of a classic Tennessee Walking Horse, but when she came to live with us, she was nothing but a bag of bones. We didn’t think Chessie had much hope of even making it through the winter.
The months passed and Chessie began gaining weight. Twenty pounds on, ten pounds off, but overall she gained enough to survive the cold weather. Spring was coming and maybe she’d make it another year. But then the horrible news my son came in to tell us–when I ran outside to check on her, Chessie was indeed dying. She had fallen in the mud sometime the night before and became cast against the barn. Apparently in her struggles to get up, she had squished the red clay mud to the point that she was half way buried in it. One side of her head was caked in it and her nostril had been laying in the water for who knows how long. Even worse, her eyes had already glazed over. One look at her, and I called my ex-husband and asked him to bring the tractor over and the pistol. It seemed the only thing to do was to pull her out, drag her to drier ground, say our good byes and put her long life of struggling to rest.
The ex brought the tractor over and we took a tow strap and carefully wrapped it around Chessie. We dug her legs out of the mud, which by this time had become the consistency of brownie batter, and every effort brought groans from the exhausted mare. After two failed attempts, we finally were able to drag Chessie out of the suction of the mud to where she could at least lay comfortably on harder earth. Soon it would be time to do the necessary, and I prepared to leave her with my son, Chessie’s human, for a last private moment.
When we pulled Chessie out, she actually surprised my by trying to stand up. Being a bit stubborn on occasion and absolutely determined to always give life a chance, I told my son to keep trying to get her up, if she was trying herself. I went to the house to clean up and looked out the window to see how they were doing, and sure enough, Chessie was still trying to stand. I ran back out with a lead rope to see what might be done.
Her struggles were weak, but somehow that old hussy managed to get her head up and hold it. I hollered at my son to run and grab 1/2 a can of grain and a small bucket of water. He came back and the old girl ate every last bite of grain and took a long drink of water.
During this whole ordeal, I’d been monitering her bowel sounds which, although very slow, had never stopped. Awhile after finishing the grain, Chessie tried standing up again. At first I thought her too weak, but when I really watched, I saw that she was having trouble getting footing in the mud. She’d stand, slip, slide down hill a bit, and try again. I looked downhill from where we were and noticed that at about 15-20 yards or so, there was a level spot with better footing, so I let Chessie keep trying to stand and sliding down the bank. Finally, after several excruciating attempts, I was able to give her leverage enough with the lead rope to help her stand up at the spot with the footing. She stood up, shaking like crazy, weak with absolute fatigue, and just stood there. My son went and got her another whole can of grain and she ate it all. Then another small drink of water and her eyes brightened and her stance was solid–still weak, but not nearly so shaky.
We gingerly picked our path out of the pasture, looking for the best footing in the horrific West Virginia red clay mud. After we got out, we put Chessie in a round pen with all the hay and water she would take. I knew we weren’t out of the woods yet as her bowel sounds were still weak and she had eaten a fair amount of grain, but we took turns every 15 minutes or so walking her around the yard a bit to try to get everything moving.
At 7:00, I left her to the care of my son and went to a meeting. About half way through, I got a phone call–”Mom, Mom, Chessie’s going to make it–she just pooped!!!!!!!”. We watched her for the next few days, gave her a shot of penicillin, and, sure enough, she’s out there in the pasture now, still a little thin, but almost to weight and being ridden by my son and I a few times a week, trying to build muscle and bring her back the rest of the way.
My son has said to me a few times since then that he believes Chessie lived because he was crying while trying to get her up. Maybe that’s so. I believe that Chessie fought because she finally KNEW she was loved.
Either or both, Chessie is alive today and in telling her story, I am sharing mine as well.
Thank you for letting me share this with whoever reads it. I reckon Creator will lead anyone to this story who needs to hear it. If nobody reads it, then I reckon Creator thought I simply needed to remember.
LaVerna and Tom Vickers
