Chester arrived bright & early yesterday morning.

Just the day before yesterday, he was on the schedule to appear before a gaggle of two-leggeds who may or may not have bid on him to be their lifelong friend.

Chances are, that type of bidding would’ve been sparse.

I mean, here’s a guy with the long curly hair that makes it obvious that he has Cushings disease.  And his hip bones are jutting out.  And, peeking through all that hair are a whole lotta ribs.

Chances are the killerman, standing there in his cowboy hat & shades, would’ve been doing some quick calculations in his head:  “So much per pound at the slaughterhouse times the approximate weight of Chester equals X dollars.  Throw in the approximate shipping costs & I know exactly how much I can bid for him.”

And he would’ve bid.

And he would’ve gotten Chester.

And Chester would’ve been put into a stock trailer, along with dozens of others horses, with no food or water & probably without the ability to even turn around.  And they all would’ve headed south to the border & beyond.

And when he got to his final destination, Chester would’ve had ropes tied to his hind legs.

And a guy with a knife would’ve stabbed him in the back.  In the spine.  To paralyze him.

Then the winch attached to the ropes would begin to whir & Chester would’ve felt himself (if he could have felt anything by then) suspended in the air.

And then the guy with the knife would’ve slit Chester’s throat from ear to ear & left him hanging there while all of Chester’s lifeblood ran out & into a well-stained drain in the floor.

But that didn’t happen.

Not to Chester.

Dozens – maybe hundreds – of other horses, yes.  That will happen to them this weekend.  And next weekend.  And every weekend after that.

But not to Chester.

Because Chester finally came home.

As we brought him from the front gate & up the lane, all the kids on the ranch shouted their greetings.  All the kids in the field pressed their chests up against the fence to get a better look at “the new guy”.

And ol’ Chester’s head was just a-spinnin’.

He looked left.  He looked right.  He whinnied back at everybody.

In a somewhat ironic bit of poetry (the Cushings & long hair & all), he’s found himself living in MooseHouse.  At least for the time being.

We gave him some Bermuda (no alfalfa for him – the Cushings) in two different feeders & he immediately went to town on it.

Pretty soon, he & Ted were getting acquainted &, before long, were mouth-wrasslin’ over their common fence.  Ted & the Moose used to do that all the time & I know he’s been missing it.

Chester couldn’t believe his good luck when the supplement cart came ‘round in the afternoon.  “Hey!  Yo!  Alright!!”  And, like the Moose, he gets Enrich 12 & not Strategy.  But the bran?  You betcha.

It was gone before you could say “Jack Robinson”.

As you know, at the end of the early evening walk-around, it’s apple time for that side of the ranch.

“Hmm”, thought I, “Wonder if Chester likes apples?”

Uh, yeah.  He likes apples.

And he & Ted were very reminiscent of Moose & Ted, standing there next to each other, happily scarfing all that I had to offer.

I just got in from feeding everybody their breakfasts.

Chester: “Oh.  Breakfast time already?  Great, dude – just set it right there, willya?”

I’m absolutely loving watching Chester get used to his new life.

Nothing makes me happier than seeing somebody come in here, carrying all the baggage he or she has built up over the years & full of trepidation & doubt, & then seeing him or her take a big, deep breath & smile:

“I think I’m gonna like it here.”

Good, Chester.

Welcome home.

Poor Little D is still fully engaged in fighting for her life.

Doc came out yesterday & took one look at that abrasion/cut on the inside of her right forefoot.  “Oh, Jim.  It looks like she might be separating there.  Let’s really have a look.”

When the hoof starts to separate from the ankle, it’s usually a mortal wound.

He gave her a sedative & got down there & looked closely.

He cut away a lot of the dead tissue & had the faire Annie fire up his dremel drill & used it to cut away some more.

When he was done, he was fairly satisfied that she is NOT separating.  Despite our best efforts, there’s infection there (which is causing her fever & recent pain) & the necrotic tissue has been eating away at healthy tissue.

He cleaned it all out & had me make a little paste out of five tabs of metronidazole & put that directly on the wound.  Then we wrapped it up.  We have to do that every day for the foreseeable future & think we’ve found a way to do it without taking off her bootie/impression material aparatus.

She’ll also get 15 SMZs & 10 metronidalozes twice a day.  And I’m gonna give ‘em to her in a Mooseshake to be certain she gets every last drop of her medicine (rather than pouring the mixture over her grain).

We’re back at a critical juncture for Little D.  We just gotta get that infection under control.  I was lamenting the fact that we’d been very consistent & precise with dressing that wound every day & still it had gotten the best of us.

Doc said the infection was coming from the inside out & that the topical treatment we thought might work just didn’t do the trick.  Live & learn, he said.

He also said he’s considering meeting Jackie here to put a shoe/lift/pad/impression material combination on at least that hoof, if not both.  It’ll be easier to treat & monitor her that way.  He’ll confer with a couple of the surgeons at the clinic & get back to me on that.

As I gave Little D her breakfast this morning, she was lying in the back, not an uncommon occurrence of late.  BTW – she was up & at her feeder at 3:30 this morning.  And, wouldn’t you know it, she’s tossed the bootie off of her left foot (not the real bad one).  I retrieved the bootie & there was no impression material inside it.

I came in the house & got the flashlight, but couldn’t find the impression material to save my life.  At least not in the dark.  It’s probably buried under some of her bedding.  Once it gets light, I’ll go check.  If we can’t find it, we’ll have to put her through the ordeal of having to do that process all over again. 

Damn, I hope I find it.  For her sake.

As you can see, the life we lead ‘round here can give you emotional whiplash.  From one extreme to the other in a matter of thirty seconds & thirty yards.

On top of all this, I received an email yesterday announcing that my late friend’s – Holly’s – horses ALL need homes.  Pronto.  Like this weekend.

Holly’s ninth-grade daughter, Madison - one of the sweetest young women I’ve ever had the opportunity to watch grow up – has been trying to run the rescue & go to school & deal with her mom’s untimely death, all at the same time.

But, naturally, it’s too much for her.

And now she has over a dozen horses that she can’t afford to feed or care for.  Especially her own horse – a big white Percheron.

I feel it incumbent upon me to try & help out Madison.  But what can I do?

With the addition of Chester & the imminent arrival of those three horses from Tucson, we’re more than full.

Oh, I’ve sent out emails to just about everybody I know who can fog a mirror, but you know how successful that’ll be.

I don’t know.

It’s just a terrible situation.

If you know of anybody who might be able to help, please email me or call me & I’ll shoot the info to you right away: jim@tierramadrehorsesanctuary.org – 480.747.1070.

You don’t suppose – for just a second – that that big white Percheron might make a good friend for Venture in the field, do you?

No, Jimbo.  Don’t go there.  You can’t go there.

Not without financial help.

Hey – you don’t suppose some of those people down here at the fancy local car wash where I get my weekly $20 worth of gas – who spend SEVENTEEN BUCKS to get their cars washed – would want to help, do you?

Not in this lifetime, Jimbo.

Not in this lifetime.

Meanwhile, America’s Herd moves ever closer to the terrible whisper of the executioner’s knife.

Whiplash.