Zanzibar

A horse who would, but for me, in all likelihood, be slaughtered.

Zanzibar is a gray, dappled gelding and one of the few animals for whom I did not have to pay. The phone rang one day with a woman inquiring if I could take her horse. He had suffered an injury on a hind leg - long since completely healed - but should, in the opinion of the vet, no longer be ridden. "I can't afford to go on feeding him and footing the feed bills.", she told me. I am a bit suspicious of such explanations. It is of course possible that the inability to care is due to changed circumstances, but such occurrences too often coincide with the time when the animal is no longer of any use. Whenever an animal is offered to me and I don't have to check if I have enough money to buy it, I fall into a trap. I forget that in taking in an animal, the purchase price is the least important consideration. The big expense is the upkeep of the animal for years, even decades to come. All forgotten. Here was a horse who would, but for me, in all likelihood, be slaughtered.

"Yes, I will take him. But if he has been living up until now in a riding stable, I have to warn you: he will be a different horse here. He will be running free."

She understood.....or thought she did. When they arrived two days later, there was straw bedding for him in the corner of the big shelter in the corral, and hay for him to eat. But there was no individual stall, and I believe this owner was shocked, although she did not let on at the time. Zanzibar arrived with a huge box of grooming implements, tack, medications, and a log of all the medical treatments he required. My vet eventually looked him over, checked the medical record and gave me a blank stare: "What have these people been doing? This horse is fine. Doesn't need a thing." After two days in the corral, I am getting him acquainted over the fence with the other six horses. The great moment: join the herd. Instant disaster.

Whenever a new cow or horse joined previously, it had been a smooth integration. He or she might be looked over and occasionally pushed aside from a particular bit of hay, but that was about as far as matters went. I expected no different this time. After all, he was a gelding, a neutered male and should not be considered competition by anyone. That's what I thought. Spook, my black gelding thought otherwise.

From the moment Zanzibar stepped into the pasture, Spook chased him, tried to bite him, kick him, and whenever he came near the mares, they joined in. Fortunately, the two geldings were of equal size and as long as he chose, Zanzibar could avoid being hurt. I stayed and stayed, wondering what to do, hoping they would settle down. I must have been there an hour or more before the first promising sign: Zanzibar trotted off with Star in tow. Spook looked, thought about it. Should he go after Star or guard his other four girls? He stayed with the group. Great! The two were far away on a hillside by now and about to disappear behind a stretch of bush. Things would work out after all. Oh no! The two were coming back and the game was on again. I didn't dare leave them. After a long time, things settled down a bit. Zanzibar, still not welcome, stayed a bit off to the side but was no longer actively pursued. I left with a good deal of apprehension.

In the following days, an uneasy truce prevailed. Zanzibar was occasionally chased but was non the worse for wear until I discovered a bite mark on him. There was no wound, but the coat was disturbed in the unmistakable semicircle of a horses mouth. This could not continue for two reasons:

Most important, I would not risk Zanzibar's health. Secondly, the former owner had been on the phone, most distraught about missing him just too much. I suspected it was more a matter of regretting having him left with me. Some people cannot believe that animals can be happy without being fussed over by themselves. I would have hated to tell her that Zanzibar had been hurt. I had to find another way.

Little Bit, my sweet invalid, her two adopted calves, and two old cows shared the best thirty or forty acres I have. Zanzibar would be happy there, especially if I could get him a girlfriend. Snarky was the perfect candidate.

I had, two years earlier, bought a black pony from a tough, leathery woman, a horse trainer. At the time, she had a huge belly. (The pony, not the woman.) So I called her Tubby. Tubby didn't trust anyone, which posed a problem. Her hooves tips curled upwards, did not wear off, but had to be trimmed. To do so required a full anesthetic, or she would have kicked the life out of the farrier. She was such an obstinate personality that to the amazement of the vet, it took three or four times the amount of drugs required to put out a normal sized horse.

She occasionally hung around with the horses, but would often stay on her own for days, and even weeks on end. She would not mind being separated from the herd.

Zanzibar was delighted with his little girlfriend, and she quite happy with him. The two spent a pleasant summer with the five cattle.

When Zanzibar arrived, his owner told me that he did not like men. He was not hostile, simply quietly moved away whenever I approached him and left me wondering what that was all about. Then one day I got a hint. Zanzibar had been grazing along the driveway and worked his way right down to the road. He suddenly realized that Snarky had stayed all the way back in the trees. He hurried back as fast as he could, trot, trot, trotting all the way, without breaking into a gallop. He must have been a harness racer, and discarded when he injured his leg. That might well explain his aversion to men. The only thing I know about people in harness racing I have seen on TV. I view with suspicion the entire horse racing crowd, but the harness racers appear to be a step down from the crowd. I would not entrust the care of an animal to any one of them.

Summer was over. No more pasture. The gang moved back to the winter quarters. Zanzibar seemed happy enough. Still, every time a gate was accidentally opened, or a cow punched a hole in the fence, he'd be off to join the other five horses. This happened on three or four occasions, and each time I guided him back. The last time it occurred, he had moved so far away, and to such an inaccessible place, that I had to wait for him to come closer to the corral before I could lead him back in. During the ensuing days, I watched the horses carefully, and discovered to my delight that all the animosity was gone.

There is a definite order of rank in any herd of horses. Zanzibar was the low man on the totem pole, but he was fully accepted as a member of the herd.

"Help us lead Canada's horses away from barbarism . .
and into the protected pastures of a civilized nation."