What the Animals Taught Me: Stories of Love and Healing from a Farm Animal Sanctuary - Softcover

Marohn, Stephanie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1571746579 ISBN 13: 9781571746573

Publisher: Hampton Roads Publishing, 2012

Synopsis

What the Animals Taught Me is a collection of stories about rescued farm animals in a shelter in Sonoma County, California, and what these animals can teach us. Each story illuminates how animals can help us see and embrace others as they truly are and reconnect us with the natural world.

Wishing to escape the urban rat race, freelance writer and editor Stephanie Marohn moved to rural northern California in 1993. Life was sweet. She was a busy freelancer. In return for reduced rent, she fed and cared for two horses and a donkey. Her life was full.

And then, more farm animals started to appear: a miniature white horse, a donkey, sheep, chickens, followed by deer and other wildlife. Each one needed sanctuary either from abuse, physical injury, or neglect. Marohn took each animal in and gradually turned her 10-acre spread into an animal sanctuary.

Each chapter of What the Animals Taught Me focuses on the story of a particular animal that became part of Marohn's life. She shares what she learned from the sheep she rescued from an animal collector, the abused donkey she helped nurse back to health, and many others to remind us that animals have much to teach us about love, compassion, trust, and so many of the qualities we so often try to cultivate in ourselves.

A deeply inspiring collection, What the Animals Taught Me awakens our hearts and reminds us that our best life teachers sometimes come covered in fur.

About this title

About the Author

Stephanie Marohn is a medical journalist and non-fiction writer and the author of What the Animals Taught Me, as well as The Natural Medicine Guide to Bipolar Disorder. She runs an animal sanctuary in Sonoma County, CA. Visit her at www.stephaniemarohn.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

What the Animals Taught Me

Series of Love and Healing from a Farm Animal Sanctuary

By Stephanie Marohn

Hampton Roads Publishing Company, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Marohn
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-57174-657-3

Contents

Chapter 1: The Winged Horse, 
Chapter 2: Wonder in Our Midst, 
Chapter 3: Gabriel the Archangel, 
Chapter 4: The Deer Ones, 
Chapter 5: First Flight, 
Chapter 6: A Sense of Belonging, 
Chapter 7: The Service of Love, 
Chapter 8: Eternal Connection, 
Chapter 9: A Promise Fulfilled, 
Chapter 10: Sanctuary, 
12 Things You Can Do to Help the Animal Messengers, 
Acknowledgments, 

CHAPTER 1

The Winged Horse

The first to arrive was a horse. I was gazing out the kitchen window in adishwashing reverie one morning when a tiny mare, half the size of a regularhorse, pranced into view. Pure white, with a long white mane and tail, shelooked like a unicorn, minus the horn. I watched in wonderment as she tossed herhead and danced away. Was she really there?

I got outside in time to see her trot up to the gate over which the two full-sizehorses who lived on the property were craning their necks, eyes wide at thesight of her. The visitor touched noses with the gray gelding. The chestnut marenext to him promptly bit the little one on the head. The white horse squealedand leapt back but wasn't truly perturbed. She was overflowing with the ecstasyof freedom.

I moved forward and she walked to meet me, nosed my outstretched hand, and gazedat me from jet-black eyes rimmed endearingly with long white eyelashes. The topof her head reached no higher than my chest. Later I learned that she is aminiature horse, which is bred differently from a pony. After greeting me, thelittle horse danced off again, back to the gate, where she got in another touchon the gelding's nose before ducking away from the mare's reach. Gabriel, thewild desert donkey, approached tentatively to see what the commotion was about.He was at the bottom of the herd's hierarchy (the mare was at the top), whichmeant he couldn't push into the others' space, so he hung back, but his eyeswere riveted on the new arrival.

I watched the little white mare tossing her head and prancing before them. Sheheld herself as if she had no weight, like a dancer does, which in equestriancircles is called "collection." The ability to do this is a regal trait ofhorses and it is thrilling to see. When horses are collected, they seem tofloat, their feet hardly touching the ground. They are complete grace andutterly, fully present.

How had this little horse gotten onto the property? The eight acres were fenced.But rather than question the marvelous gift, I went to fill a bucket of waterfor her.

That afternoon, a teenage girl came looking for the horse, who it turned out hadbroken her tether a few houses away. The little mare raised her head to look atthe girl, but lowered it again to the bounty of the grass. We stood watching hergraze and speculated about how she had ended up here. We concluded that someonemust have come across her on the road, seen the sign on my driveway gaterequesting those who entered to close the gate after them because horses wereloose on the property, and figured this was where she belonged. Rural SonomaCounty, where I live, still operates in the old farm way: passersby takeresponsibility if they see a cow, horse, sheep, goat, or pig loose and take thetime to herd the animal to safety.

The little mare must have slipped her halter to get free of the tether becauseshe was wearing no sign of ownership or bondage—a fairy horse, entirely her ownbeing. That's the vision of her I still carry, and my memory blurs when I recallthe girl putting a rope around the little one's neck and leading her away. Withthe deep connection I have to this horse now, I can't believe I let the girltake her with no discussion of other options, knowing she would end up back on atether, with no horse companions. Horses are herd animals and they pine inloneliness when they are forced to live without other horses. I knew all thisand I loved animals dearly, but at that time my heart would open only so far; mymind could still persuade me not to follow my heart's promptings. "Adopting ahorse would tie you down," my mind told me. "You already have a cat and that'senough of a commitment. Better just to enjoy other people's animals." So I letthe little white horse be led away.

I didn't think I would see her again. But one morning a few weeks later, when Isat down at my computer to write and looked out over the expanse of summer-goldengrass that stretched from the windows before me to the neighboring field,there she was. Tethered in the field beyond the fence line, with about fifteenfeet of rope tied to a stake, she could only go endlessly round in a circle.Tethering is a terrible thing to do to any animal. It alters their minds to havetheir world limited to what they can reach at the end of a rope, just as itwould the mind of a human kept that way.

The horse was out there all day, and the next day too. On the third morning, Isaw that she had knocked over her water bucket. As the day wore on, nobody cameto refill it. I could stand it no longer. The girl had told me where she lived,and I walked down the street to talk to her and her mother. After the usualneighborly exchange of who has lived where and for how long, I broached thesubject of the little horse, asking if they were looking for a good home forher, gently suggesting that she might be happier where she could roam free andbe with other horses. The mother said they actually would like to find a newhome for her, that they had thought they could set up a fence—she knew whathorses needed (there was a touch of guilt in this and a need to explain that shewas aware the tether was a bad idea)— but they only rented the place and had hadwork setbacks recently, so they couldn't afford it. When I asked where the horsehad come from, the woman said that a guy who owed her husband money for work hehad done for him hadn't been able to pay and had given the horse in lieu ofpayment.

Before I knew it, I was walking the horse out to the road and heading for home.Looking down at her, I couldn't stop smiling at the thought that I would beseeing this magical creature every day. She went willingly with me, steppingalong patiently at my side on her pearly hooves. I assumed she was used to beingled where humans chose to take her. Now, looking back, I think she knew therewas a grander plan. At the time, I thought I was merely rescuing a horse. Sheknew better.

As soon as we were inside the driveway gate, I took off her halter and stoodback. She gazed at me for a moment with those beautiful black eyes, then flew upthe gravel drive, heading for the herd. My heart lifted at the sight of her setfree. Her true name came to me then: Pegasus. Her old name didn't make it pastthe gate.

Pegasus's new home was eight acres of pasture and brush. I rented the house onthe property, worked at home as a writer and editor, and took care of theowner's two horses and donkey. A "no-climb" fence, a sturdy wire-mesh and wood-postconstruction designed for the safety of livestock, ran around the perimeterof the property and sectioned off three pastures, with gates to separate animalsas needed. I closed the gate between the new arrival and the others for a fewdays until I was sure the large horses wouldn't hurt her. I wasn't worried aboutGabriel. It was clear from their exchanges through the fence that they werealready friends.

I hadn't planned on being the guardian of large animals. I'd come into the roleafter a long process of settling down that had begun for me eight years beforewhen I left the city for the country. I had lived in one city or another, mostlySan Francisco, for seventeen years when one day I could no longer stand thesound of footsteps overhead. Auspiciously, the mother of a friend of mine had anunoccupied house in the remote hills above the Russian River in Sonoma County,the land of vineyards and wineries north of San Francisco.

My plan was to spend a month finishing a novel I was writing. The house was aperfect writing retreat—quiet, isolated, with a gorgeous view of rolling hillsand few houses in sight. The day after I moved in, a wild cat showed up. He wasstarving, rail-thin, and had the hunched look of illness. I had grown up withcats and dogs in my rural childhood in Ohio and Pennsylvania, loving themardently, but as an adult I also loved to travel and was reluctant to be tieddown. I couldn't deny an animal in need, though. Within three days, the cat wassleeping in my bed. Recovery of his health took longer, but together we managedit. When I moved a year later to the eight-acre property where Pegasus arrived,the once-wild cat, now named Pooka, went with me.

The two horses who lived on this property were welltrained elders. That was agood thing because I had little experience with horses. They took a halter andsubmitted with no fuss to hoof trimmings and whatever veterinary care theyneeded; they just wanted to graze and be left alone. Donkeys are known as easykeepers, so Gabriel didn't require much either, at least at first. WithPegasus's arrival, I was introduced to all my shortcomings.

I let her run free, which was fine as long as I didn't need her to do anything,but then she stopped taking the halter and would run away when I approached herto put it on. I had no idea what to do. I was aware that an experiencedhorsewoman could solve this problem in two seconds, but I didn't have thoseskills. What I did have was an innate connection with animals and a belief inthe path of love to achieve cooperation. I was sure we could work this out, andwhen she tossed her head and took off to avoid the halter, I had enough sense tosee that it was my failing, not hers.

There is nothing quite like the proving ground of the pasture. You can't hideinadequacy out there. And since I lived alone, the responsibility fell entirelyon me. Butterflies of anxiety fluttered in my stomach. I was afraid of doing itall wrong, and worried that in my ignorance I might cause Pegasus somepsychological damage, though all I was doing was following her around with thehalter.

One night I went out to round her up because I was leaving the next morning fora week and didn't want her loose on the property without me there. Like the tyroI was, I waited until late at night to do this. An experienced horse personwouldn't wait until after dark, much less ten p.m., and would have established aroutine of roundup around dinnertime. I had always hated schedules and hadn'tyet learned that everything goes much easier with animals when there is aconsistent routine. In avoidance of the halter confrontation, I had been hopingPegasus would put herself to bed. Sometimes she did.

By the time I went outside, it was stormy. Wind tends to make horses wild.Again, at the first sign of a pending storm, a pasture veteran would haverounded her up immediately.

But there I was, walking the fields in the rainy dark, calling her name, whichwas more for me than for her. The wind took my voice, and it was unlikely thatshe would have come even if she had heard—free life was way more compelling atthat point. I was thoroughly soaked when I finally saw her ghostly white form inthe lower field, not far from the house. Rain and wind whipped around us as Iapproached. When she turned to look at me, her eyes were wild, the whitesshowing. When I tried to put on the halter, she wheeled and kicked up her heels,catching me on one thigh, and then raced off into the dark.

I didn't think she had aimed for me; the wheeling and kicking was her dramaticexit. I burst into tears, not so much because it hurt, though it did (a heftybruise would serve for weeks as a reminder of just where ignorance can get you),but out of frustration and an overwhelming sense of failure. What did I think Iwas doing? I didn't know anything about horses. I was probably making all kindsof other mistakes in the way I was taking care of her. What kind of rescue wasthis—deliverance from a tether into the hands of someone who didn't know whatthe hell she was doing?

I stood there in the dark field in the rain and wind and cried. Suddenly,Pegasus was there, nudging at my arm. I stroked her neck and apologized throughmy tears for inflicting my lack of experience on her. She nudged me again and Irealized she was inviting me to put the halter on her. She stood patiently whileI did and then docilely allowed me to lead her to the other animals. It wasobvious that Pegasus was comforting me, and she was willing to put aside herwildness to do it. I was in awe of the largeness of this little horse's heart.

In the synchrony of the universe, a woman who works with horses contacted me notlong after that night about doing some editing for her. Christine's approachwith horses fit my belief system (inexperienced as I was, I had a beliefsystem). Rather than using equipment (halters and ropes) and training the horseto bow to the human's wishes, her focus is on horse and person establishing arelationship through companion walking without equipment. This is known asliberty work, or liberty training. We agreed on a trade of our skills.

Christine is a lifetime horsewoman who, after discovering the companion way,regretted her earlier unquestioning acceptance of conventional methods oftraining horses. Being a no-nonsense cowgirl, however, she didn't spend timebemoaning the fact, instead concentrating on becoming ever better at thecompanion work and expanding it into her own approach to the human-horserelationship.

As Pegasus and I walked side by side in the pasture during our first sessionwith Christine, Pegasus kept turning her head to me, wanting to interact, touch,nestle. We were supposed to walk, eyes ahead but being watchful of each otherout of the sides of our eyes as horses do, and match our pace. I had to keepgently pushing Pegasus's head away. When we walked for a time as we weresupposed to, Christine instructed me to stop and give her a reward. First it wasa bit of carrot or apple, but Pegasus glowed when I touched her, so from thenon, the reward was a hug, a pat, or a rub.

After brief observation of us together, Christine informed me that she could seean unusually strong connection between us, but Pegasus was in charge. I didn'tneed an expert to tell me that Pegasus had me wrapped around her pearly littlehoof. Whereas some people tend to project an ulterior or manipulative motivationonto a horse behaving in this way, Christine said simply that for the safety ofthe herd someone has to be in charge; since I hadn't taken the lead in ourinteractions, Pegasus had stepped into the void. (In the herd as it was formingon this property, the chestnut mare was the lead, but, for my own safety, I wassupposed to be the leader of them all.) Pegasus had no ego attachment orinvestment in being the leader. This wasn't a power struggle. It was simply theway it was: someone needed to lead. I learned that the main way I wascommunicating my non-leadership to Pegasus was by walking in front of her or ather head instead of at her shoulder or slightly behind it. Contrary to the humanway, the one in front is not the leader. The leader chooses the direction ofmovement and impels the other forward from behind. This is horse 101.

Another way I was signaling non-leadership was by allowing Pegasus to move meoff my position. No horse in the herd moves the lead mare from where she stands(and no horse in the herd would kick the lead mare, even by accident!).Christine used an incident with a plastic bucket as a demonstration of this.Pegasus and I had progressed in our companion walking to navigating an obstaclecourse side by side. This was also to make it more interesting since we had bothgotten bored with just walking around the pasture. We were weaving our waythrough the assortment of farm objects I had used to create the obstacle course,from a rusty wheelbarrow to a toolbox to a wooden crate to an empty industrialplastic paint bucket. Suddenly, a gust of wind whipped a tarp around the side ofthe barn and Pegasus spooked. She wheeled and took off, charging over theplastic bucket and shattering it.

"If you aren't the leader, you could be that bucket," said Christine. Sheexplained that even when horses spook, they never invade the lead mare's space.They may turn and run in panic, but they automatically veer around the lead mareif she is in their path. For their own safety, people, being so outsized byhorses in most cases, need to establish themselves as leaders. It's importanteven with horses the size of Pegasus, Christine continued, because if in herpanic to escape the scary tarp she had run into me instead of the bucket, shecould have really hurt me. I looked at Pegasus, now happily grazing, and wasglad I was learning the Way of the Horse with a miniature. I had newappreciation for a friend of mine who works with stallions.

In one of our walking sessions, Christine handed me a riding crop, which had aleather cord attached to it. It looked like a whip and I hated it on sight. Sheassured me that I would only be using it like a tail. Since I don't have a tailand tails are an essential part of horse language, I needed some equipment to beable to communicate. Pegasus and I walked around the pasture again, me holdingthe crop down at my side, the cord end behind me. When her attention wandered, Iflicked my "tail" at her flank as the lead mare would do if a horse weredawdling or otherwise in need of direction. I did it only a few times and thenstood still. Christine asked what I was doing; it took me a moment to answerbecause I was trying not to cry.

"I can't use this thing," I said finally, and burst into tears. I dropped thecrop in the grass and moved away from it. I couldn't even stand to be near it.Pegasus, who had taken the opportunity to graze, came over then and gentlynuzzled me, as she had when I was crying on that rainy night.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from What the Animals Taught Me by Stephanie Marohn. Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Marohn. Excerpted by permission of Hampton Roads Publishing Company, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Hampton Roads Publishing
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1571746579
• ISBN 13: 9781571746573
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 192