It doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
~Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca
Amy and I grew up in the 1970s on the far western outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. At the time the area was comprised of small farms that were rapidly being sold off and transformed into tract-house sub-divisions, which gave it an unusual suburban/rural character. Our relatively large, modern high school was surrounded by corn fields and pastures. Most of our classmates planned to go to college and pursue professional careers, but the school also had a thriving chapter of Future Farmers of America, and on the first day of deer-hunting season a lot of kids skipped class.
This was the context in which Amy's parents moved against the prevailing current and sold their suburban home to buy a working farm a few miles away that had been too small and poorly located to sub-divide. The move kept her family in our school district, but meant that we would attend different middle schools, delaying our meeting for a few years until we crossed paths in high school. It also uprooted her from the "normal" neighborhood she'd known and dropped her into a very different environment.
Life on a small farm wasn't glamorous or lucrative, and it involved a lot of dirty, unpleasant work. But one of the benefits was the opportunity to have a horse, which had a special appeal to an 11-year-old girl. Amy rode and maintained Nancy all through her childhood and into her first year of college, after which her parents moved away and sold the farm. We had started dating the year before, and I have many fond memories of spending time there with Amy--although not many fond memories of Nancy, a mare who never liked any of Amy's boyfriends.
I didn't fully understand this at the time, but riding and having a relationship with a horse was a profoundly important formative experience for Amy. It gave her a degree of independence enjoyed by relatively few children of white-collar families. It allowed her to challenge herself physically in a way that few girls of that era were allowed to. And it taught her that caring for a horse was a major responsibility, not to be undertaken lightly.
Amy rode a handful of times in college, but horses generally stopped being a part of her life after her parents left the farm. And then, just over 2 years ago in 2017, Amy learned that a trail-riding outfit would be operating for a few months in Golden Gate Park, just a few miles from where we live in San Francisco, and she decided to give it a try.
Spending time with horses again awakened something in Amy that had lain dormant for 30 years. It wasn't just the physical experience of riding--it was also the emotional experience of having to connect with this large, strong, potentially dangerous and psychologically complex animal in order to ride it. She didn't know it at the time, but she was hooked.
The trail-ride program came to an end, but then Amy discovered a semi-dilapidated stable on the Daly City coast, just south of San Francisco, that was (somewhat surprisingly) still in operation--and there she met Merlin, a semi-dilapidated horse, also (somewhat surprisingly) still in operation. Amy took regular lessons from Jackie, a gifted and empathetic instructor, and got back in riding form over the course of the year, during which time she also fell in love with Merlin.
Merlin wasn't in great shape--he was fairly old, underweight and was occasionally bullied by younger, stronger horses in the corral. In order to have consistent access to Merlin and to prevent him from being used on group rides, Amy decided to lease Merlin from the stable. She also got more involved in his maintenance and upkeep, which only led her to feel closer to him and more responsible for his welfare.
When Amy learned that the stable might shut down because the property owner was considering another use for the land, she became concerned about Merlin's long-term fate. Given his age and health, it was quite possible that at auction he'd wind up headed for a slaughterhouse--so in mid-2018 she decided to "buy" him from the stable (for the nominal sum of $1) and take over full responsibility for his care.
Shortly afterwards, Amy decided to move Merlin to Miwok, a stable located in Tennessee Valley in southern Marin County, on land that's a part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, one of the Bay Area's most beautiful parks. The move was driven in part by concerns about the future of the stable in Daly City and in part to find a home where Merlin could thrive.
And for the better part of a year Amy has devoted herself to insuring that he does thrive. She's traveled up to Marin before work and after work and on weekends as often as possible. She's seen him through major dental work and multiple injuries and a frightening episode of colic, when it seemed quite possible that an intestinal blockage might kill him. And with the help of the amazing staff at Miwok, she's tended carefully to his diet, helping him put on nearly 200 pounds, returning him to a healthy weight for a horse his size.
And as Amy has nursed Merlin back to full health, he's become very energetic--to the point where he's rearing and posing a danger to the staff. After two such incidents, yesterday Linda, the stable director, told Amy that Merlin has to leave Miwok. Amy understands and supports this decision, but it's been very painful, and there have been a lot of tears, including mine. The sad thing is that Merlin doesn't usually act up like this with Amy, but she can't be there every day to take care of him--she's been going 3 or 4 days a week, and even that has been difficult to accomplish.
Given all the factors involved, Amy's had to conclude that it's not feasible to move Merlin to another stable, where the same issues might arise, and that it's time to find him a home where he can live the rest of his life in peace. So yesterday Linda and Amy and I went up to a farm in Sonoma County where they keep "retired" horses, and it's a beautiful setting where Merlin will get to roam in a 15-acre pasture with a few other horses. We can visit him, but given the distance and our other responsibilities it won't be possible for us to make the trip more than once or twice a month.
I've interacted enough with Merlin to know that he's an unusual horse--he's more interested in people than most other horses and has a very "interpersonal" dimension, so to speak. Yesterday I was scratching him, and he nibbled on my beard, a gesture he's made several times that I can't help but interpret as a way of saying "thanks." And although I'll miss him, the hardest thing for me is observing the impact on Amy--I've seen how meaningful it's been for her to care for him, to oversee his return to health, to manage this very willful and complicated creature, and she truly loves him. (I have to say I do, too.)
Amy knows this move is the right thing for Merlin--he's had a hard life, probably spent roping calves, given the nature of his injuries, and being in an environment where he can just "be a horse" and run with a small herd will be a happy ending for him. But it will also leave a big hole in Amy's life, and it's hard for me to watch her prepare for that. She'll keep taking riding lessons on other horses at the stable, but that's really never been the point of horse-ownership for her.
She rescued Merlin because she fell in love with him and wanted to save his life, and she did, but now he has to move on. So it is an ending--not a permanent goodbye, but a fundamental shift in the nature of their relationship, in Amy's ability to care for him on a regular basis, and in her opportunity to find fulfillment in making the world a slightly better place for another creature.
I know that in the grand scheme of things there are far more important problems--Amy and I are facing several right now, which are undoubtedly making this a more emotional experience. I'm well aware that the problem of two little people and one old horse doesn't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. But today I wanted to write about this particular problem, both to acknowledge the sadness it has evoked and to let Amy know: I see you, and I see the noble work you've done. You saved a beautiful animal's life, and you taught me a lot in the process. You've sacrificed much to make this happen, and it's been inspiring to witness. It makes me want to be a better, less selfish person, and it makes me appreciate my time with you even more.
