“Hello…” Mona shouts. “Mr. Wilson! Its Mona Harris. I came to get the horse…”
Nothing. No sign of Mr. Wilson. We’ve been in some sketchy situations before, but we usually have law enforcement or animal services backing us up.
“Are you sure this Facebook post was for real?” I hiss. Why am I whispering? Who knows.
“’Course it was.”
“Because I won’t survive captivity,” I joke. A nervous bubble of laughter escapes me.
“Mr. Wiiiillllsooon,” Mona hollers, hands cupped around her mouth. The dog barks some more. His efforts seem half-hearted, though. He soon gives up and lays back down.
“I heard you the first time, dammit,” an old man grumbles as he steps out of the screen door of the trailer while buttoning his fly. “I was in the toilet when you got here.”
Yeah, okay, too much information.
Wilson has to be close to eighty-years-old. He’s slouched over and walks with a serious limp. The stained wife beater tank he’s wearing with his faded blue pants exposes two old scars on his shoulder that look to be gunshot wounds. I can only wonder what their story is.
“He’s over here,” he says, limping toward the makeshift shack.
Exactly what I was afraid of.
We follow and with every step I take, the smell of ammonia, of urine left to breakdown over time, gets stronger and stronger until I can hardly breathe. I do my best to cover my nose with the collar of my Mother Goose Rescue t-shirt, but it still makes me dizzy. Next to me, Mona’s hiding behind her hand.
Dread hits me in the gut as we step inside the dark shack. And with good reason. Feces are stacked up along the walls. Black flies are everywhere. In the back, with his head hidden in the corner and hung low, is a medium-sized, black horse that looks so thin I don’t know how he’s still alive. He’s emaciated beyond anything I’ve ever seen.
I thought I was done being surprised by life’s cruelty, but no such luck. Today is another reminder that there’s always a new bottom to be discovered.
Neither one of us speaks at first. Mona and I know the drill. Pointing out the obvious will not help this animal, it will only harden the owner against us. Humans are complex creatures and their motivations and intents will surprise you sometimes. I don’t know how many animals we’ve pulled from horrible circumstances where the owner believed he was doing the right thing or just didn’t know any better.
“This here’s Legend,” Mr. Wilson says, shifting from foot to foot. He won’t meet my or Mona’s eyes all of a sudden. “Can’t afford no hay… can barely afford my medication.”
Shaming him won’t do dick. Judging from the look of this place, Mr. Wilson is holding on to life by his fingernails.
Mona, in her infinite kindness, reaches out and pats his shoulder. “You posted that you needed help,” she says gently, “and here we are. You did good, honey.”
He nods, embarrassed to look up. “You do what you can do for him,” he replies and shuffles out of the shack, disappearing into his trailer. Back to a life of solitude and hardship.
As soon as he walks out, we jump into action. “I’ll put the ramp down and call Tom,” I gasp. Tom being the hero veterinarian who cares for all our babies. I run out of the shack and drive the trailer up as close as I can get it.
Halter in hand, Mona slowly approaches Legend who finally raises his head to look at us. Big, soft eyes stare back, begging for help. Still willing to trust. I’m not ready to give up, his eyes tell me.
Mona gets the halter on and very slowly leads him out. He’s weak and unsteady on his legs, his hooves overgrown.
It takes two of us and twenty minutes to slowly get him in the trailer. Mona insists she wants to ride in the back with him, but I veto that idea. The road is bumpy, and if he falls on her, I’ll be powerless to help either one of them.
Relief washes over me the minute we drive into the vet clinic and three animal techs run out to help us. Legend is a critical case and they’re treating him with the urgency he requires. Still, there’s no guarantee he’ll survive.
“He’s a mess,” Tom says, his handsome face telling the same story. Then he smiles at me. “But we’ll do everything we can.”
“Tommy Holland,” Mona starts with a dimpled smile, “I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Don’t you dare let this sweet baby die on us.”
Tom chuckles. “He’s around fifteen, and I’ll do my best. If we can get him through the night, our chances look better.”
Tom is the kind of guy that every woman dreams about marrying: handsome, kind, a natural healer with a sense of humor. Unfortunately for me, Tom is about as sexually appealing as a pair of hand-knitted acrylic mittens. Otherwise, I’d be campaigning hard for him right now. There’s something seriously wrong with me. I blame Simply Sinful.
We spend some time giving Legend love and affection and promising him a great life from here on out if he can just hang on. I take pictures of the physical state we found him in. It’s to protect the animals in case the owners change their minds and decide they want them back. One threatened to sue us until I sent him the vet bill and a few pictures of the fresh wounds the vet found. Then I threatened to get the cops involved.
I post all the pictures on our social media accounts for two reasons: education and education. People need to be made aware of what’s happening and learn how to help stop it.
We head home and pull into the driveway around six. Shane’s car is gone and the lights in Aidan’s trailer are on. It’s weird, but I’m starting to like having them here. Even if they are still strangers.
I park the pickup and head straight to the barn. The day’s not over yet; the animals need to be fed dinner. Loud brays and nickers greet me at the door. Without fail, they always manage to lift my mood.
“You guys have a new brother to welcome soon. I want you to be extra nice to him.”
The very loud greeting continues. I pet every velvety nose poking outside the stalls as I make my way down the aisle to the feed room. All in a normal day’s work. And I wouldn’t do anything differently.
Later in the evening, after I let Mona stuff me with her delicious meatloaf and a baked potato, I drag my tired ass up the stairs to my bedroom and pull out the binoculars. It’s become a nightly ritual of sorts––taking stock of the paddocks and barn, making sure all is quiet.
I put them to my face, adjust the focus, scan the property. My line of sight moves left, and then keeps scanning until I reach the guesthouse. The lights are on, the drapes pulled aside.
In the back of my mind, where the healthy conscience I used to possess now lives, I know I shouldn’t be lingering. That I would be appalled to learn someone was spying on me. And yet I don’t stop. Not even when Shane Hughes moves across the window completely naked.
Holy helloooo. What in the cheeseandnuts is this?
Instead of stopping, I lean in. Yep, I lean in. Because this man is worthy of crazy behavior. Jaime had an impressive body, but nothing like this. Every muscle on Shane Hughes’ body is honed to perfection. All the way from his pectorals to his butt. Nothing like his brother’s––which is more flash than substance. Those muscles are not a vanity project. They come from hard work and necessity.