 Prayers for Peanuts - Rebecca Mankiller
“Oh, did I tell you?” Amy said in one of our evening phone “conferences.” “We rescued another horse today.”
“We did?” I asked, feeling the joy set in of helping another horse’s life get set right.
“We got the call from Delilah’s previous owner,” Amy’s story unfolded, “and we originally went to evaluate this new horse’s condition. They were going to let us have him for 24 hours to have him checked out, but Laurie and I saw him, and we just couldn’t let him go back. He may not be the best horse for our programs, but he’s so sweet and needs to be with us. Laurie and I made the decision for the Board, and took him to the stables. I hope you don’t mind that we didn’t call.”
“It’s probably best you didn’t,” I laughed. “I’m not the best one to ask in that situation. I’d want to rescue even a plastic horse that wasn’t being treated right. Whether or not a horse will fit into our programs wouldn’t even be considered.”
Amy described this horse’s condition, and I definitely knew they’d made the right decision to keep him. He was a chestnut Morgan, about 21 years old. While we don’t ever adopt a horse simply for its breed, the eight-year-old in me was secretly ecstatic to hear that a Morgan would be joining our fold (Morgans having been my favorite breed in childhood.) Morgans are an elegant, sound and loyal breed. They are surprisingly strong for horses their size, averaging about 14 hands, but can outwork even some draft breeds. They are distinctively American horses, and have more heart than almost any other breed.
Even though our new guy’s owners thought they’d been doing right by him, he had rein rot and mange from not having his saddle blankets changed, his teeth hadn’t been floated in God knows how long, and – according to his owners – he was “down in the rear,” meaning his hind quarters were lamed. True to his breed, he stood about 14 hands, but his previous owners had been cautioned that he should not be ridden by adults, most likely due to a previous injury.
This recommendation had been ignored and he had been carrying adults on trail rides for the last years of his life - even though his maximum rider capacity was only about 90 pounds, or someone around the weight of an 8 or 9 year old child. His owner had decided to donate him to our programs after he’d collapsed on a trail ride, and hadn’t recovered.
For this sturdy of a horse to have gone down at all spoke of something dreadful that must have happened to him at some point in his life. Down in the rear, indeed.
I listened to Amy, and knew I wanted this horse. Not just for our programs, but for me. I knew he belonged with us, even if he could never be ridden again. Any horse with that kind of heart needed to be on our ranch. I could just imagine what he looked like. Probably with large, sweet brown eyes in his trademark slender Morgan face, his rich chestnut coat that we could brush back to its fiery glory. I couldn’t wait to meet him.
“He’s out at Billie’s right now,” Amy continued, “and the vet’s already been out to start treating him.
Oh, and his name is Peanut.”
I fell in love with him right then and there. Just because his name was Peanut. How could you not love a horse that had come equipped with his own pet name? And all our horses have pet names: Delilah is our little Fuzzy Bear; Decker is our Boo Boo. But Peanut...he was just our little Peanut.
The initial reports during the first hours and days of Peanut’s arrival were good. He’d been given his first bath in who knows how long, during which he drifted into blissful sleep. His rein rot and mange were treated with iodine washes and was already showing the first signs of healing. He ate with gusto out of the feed bag Amy offered him, nearly pushing her over as he rooted around at the bottom of the bag.
A few days later, before Amy left on vacation, she’d told me about her last visit with Peanut. She was feeling better about our newest acquisition, assured that he’d make a recovery of sorts – even if not a quick one or total one.
“I think he’s going to be okay,” she told me.
You tend to start breathing sighs of relief when you get news like that.
Six days later, I came home from the office, yet another grueling day of juggling projects, meeting people, shuffling schedules, and general mayhem. I popped on line for a quick check of the old email. I saw Laurie’s name on the list, thinking I’d be getting an update on the construction of her gorgeous new house. In the midst of landscaping ideas, two sentences jumped out at me and rattled my version of reality a little.
“Peanut, the new horse WHY Ranch adopted, isn’t doing well. He isn’t eating, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Now, I’m no equine expert, but I know enough to understand that if a horse isn’t eating, it’s not good news. Horses are like Pie Eating Contests Winners. If they’re not eating, there’s something seriously wrong.
“Pray for this little guy,” Laurie’s email continued. “He really needs God in his life right now.”
At first, my brain refused to wrap around the concept. I’d gone from referring landscapers one minute to learning the next minute that my little Peanut was going downhill – quick. All in one email; all in the matter of eleven days.
So I went to my knee-jerk reaction:
Pray for this little guy...
“God? What happened? Amy said he was doing much better. What happened?” I cried without meaning to. You start to wonder if you’re maybe a little bit nuts to cry so hard for a horse you’d never laid eyes on. But that doesn’t make you cry any less.
Pray for this little guy...
“Lord, please don’t let him go.” I cried harder at the thought of losing our little Peanut.
I called Laurie, interrupting her dinner party, and heard the worst. The vet wasn’t even sure what was wrong with Peanut. They’d treated him for colic, taking the precaution to avoid that dangerous condition. He was on antibiotics, vitamin treatments, given mash to eat. He hadn’t eaten much of anything for going on four days, and wasn’t improving. The vet was going back out again the next day for last ditch checks for abscessed teeth that might have been missed, and to draw more blood for tests.
And my poor Peanut would have to spend one more listless night in the home that was supposed to have rescued him. Laurie and I both cried at what we were helpless to fix. She was doing everything she could to no avail; and I was trapped 300 miles away, as useless as I could be.
“Sometimes this happens with rescued horses,” Laurie tried to console. “Sometimes it’s just too much, and their hearts break.”
How so the opposite of what we were trying to achieve. How were we supposed to turn this around?
Pray for this little guy...
“Lord, I don’t believe in this day,” I prayed with a spiritual stamp of my feet, feeling childish and hurt. “I believe in a better day.”
Pray for this little guy...
“Lord, please don’t let this suffering be all Peanut ever knows,” I prayed my honest, bottom-line prayer. “He doesn’t even know we love him yet.”
And there it was: my real prayer; the prayer for Peanuts – all our Peanuts. For the Peanuts who have come to us already, and the Peanuts who will come to us yet. Equine and human Peanuts alike.
Lord, please don’t let the pain be all they ever know. Let them see they’re loved, Lord. Make sure they know that.
***
Sadly, we received the news from Laurie the next day that Peanut had not been able to withstand his last ordeal. There was nothing more we could have done for him. I’m sure I wasn’t alone when I took the grief of his loss deeply to heart. Laurie and I had wept together on the phone when the suggestion was first made to end the suffering that Peanut could no longer endure. I know we were all stunned and shaken. Peanut, like so many other wonderful things in life, had come and gone far too quickly.
But like all the other wonderful, fleeting things in life, Peanut has left his mark and his memory amongst us: the hopeful image of a chestnut Morgan, glossy red the way he should be in the sunlight, the elegant demeanor and sweet, large brown eyes that would make the heart of any eight-year-old sing. Our Peanut’s there in that image.
With Laurie’s confirmation, I have the sneaking suspicion that during the two weeks Peanut was with us, he did so know we loved him. |
This is a testament to God’s Faithfulness to the vision He’s given for the disadvantaged youth of Las Vegas. The White Horse Youth Ranch (WHY Ranch) in Las Vegas has seen the hand of God move mightily in the hearts of the volunteers from Trinity Western University (TWU unit) as they came willingly to remodel the pool house into a “Reflection House” where so many visiting the Ranch will be able to have peace and reflection from our ever hurried and stressful lives.