Feed me, water and care for me,
and when the day's work is done,
provide me with a shelter,
a clean dry stall large enough
for me to lie down in comfort.
Talk to me, your voice often means
as much to me as the reins.
Pet me sometime that I may serve you
more gladly and learn to love you.
Shoe me properly that I may
serve you in comfort.
Never strike, beat, or kick me
when I don't understand what you want,
but give me the chance to understand you.
And finally oh master,
when my youthful strength is gone
do not turn me out to starve or freeze,
or sell me to some cruel owner
to be slowly tortured or stoned to death,
but do thou, my master,
take my life in the kindest way, and
your God will reward you here and hereafter.
You will not consider me irreverent if I ask this
in the name of Him who was born in a stable...
Amen...
Here is a golden rule, a horseman should live up to;
the priceless knowledge in horsemanship.
Remember each time you approach a horse,
A man of kindness to his horse is kind,
A brutal action is a brutal mind. Think,
the Lord made thee, made the brute.
He who gave thee speech and reason, formed him also mute,
He can't complain; but our good God's all seeing eyes,
So behold thy cruelty.
He hears his cries of the mute.
He was created thy servant, not thy drudge.
Remember, his creator is thy judge.
I saw a child who couldn't walk,
sit on a horse, laugh and talk,
Then ride through a field of daisies and yet could not walk unaided.
I saw a child no legs below,
sit on a horse and make it go,
Through wood of green and places he had never been.
To sit and stare except from chair.
I saw a child who could only crawl,
Mount a horse and sit up tall;
Then put it through degrees' of paces
And laugh at wonder in our faces.
I saw a child born into strife,
Take up and hold the reins of life and that same child was heard to say,
Thank God for showing me the way!
From Special Methods in Learning Equine Skills, Inc.
Blue Haven Stables, Inc.
W. 4853 Business Hwy 51
Merrill, WI
Though it's been years since his racing career ended,
Niatross is still a powerful horse. Taller than most men, he
weighs half a ton, with a broad chest and chiseled muscles
that ripple under a rich bronze coat.
A racing legend, the champion Standardbred racehorse
won 37 of 39 races in 1979-80 and over a million dollars. No
horse could pass him once he got the lead.
In 1996, when he was 19 years old, Niatross made a 20-
city tour across North America. For 16 years, Niatross had
done little more than romp in his paddock and munch hay and
oats. Now he'd have a rock star's schedule, with press
conferences and photographers in every city, a strange stall
to sleep in and thousands of fans wanting to pet and fuss
over him. As his tour manager, I traveled with him.
Niatross greeted fans from Maine to Illinois, in big
cities and county fairs, in scorching heat and chilly winds.
Niatross endured it all with grace and almost eerie
intelligence. He was always able to sense what was expected
of him and do it.
One night in Buffalo, New York, Niatross pawed and
stomped his feet as he waited for his cue to pace down the
racetrack for a photo session. The big horse, in his
impatience, reared up on his hind legs, pulling his handler,
a 6'6" man, off his feet, before lunging on to the track.
But the outburst was over quickly and soon he stood to be
photographed, once again the obliging star.
After his track appearance, Chris, his handler,
unharnessed Niatross and brushed his lustrous coat. As the
two rounded the corner from the barn to the grandstand where
a crowd of fans waited, Niatross rolled his eyes and stopped
in his tracks, as if to say, "Oh, no. I have to do this
again?" But with a gentle tug on the lead rope, Niatross
moved ahead to take his place of honor.
For two hours, he was petted, stroked, prodded and
swooned over. I was silently thanking Niatross for another
night of patience with us when out of the corner of my eye,
I saw a moving, buzzing blur zipping across the pavement
toward Niatross. As it drew closer, I could see that the
blur was a child in an electric wheelchair. The child had
his chair going full throttle and before I could caution him
not to scare Niatross, he came to an abrupt halt under the
horse's nose, mere inches from his powerful front legs.
Clearly startled, but maintaining his poise, Niatross
widened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at the
tiny blonde boy, who was around five years old and looked
like a doll in the heavy, motorized chair. I said hello to
the child, who perhaps because of his handicap, was unable
to speak. The fingers of his right hand were clutched around
a button that propelled his chair; the fingers on the left
hand were frozen around a Niatross poster. He looked at me
intently, his eyes burning a hole through my face.
"Would you like Niatross to sign your poster?" I asked.
With great solemnity, he nodded his head yes. I pulled the
poster from his fingers, tapped Niatross' foot to get him to
lift it, placed the poster beneath it and traced his hoof.
"There," I said, slipping the poster back between his
fingers, "Niatross signed his name for you." The child said
nothing, but continued his fixed gaze at me.
"Do you want to give Niatross a pat?" I asked. Again,
he solemnly moved his head up and down. Yes.
A mild panic came over me. How could we do this? The
boy couldn't extend a hand or unclench his fingers, his arms
were frozen at his side. How could he reach up to pat a
horse? I turned to Chris, not knowing what to do, but
knowing we couldn't disappoint this child.
"Chris?" I said, hoping he'd have an idea. Without
hesitation, Chris placed his hand a few inches beneath
Niatross' soft muzzle. Niatross lowered his velvety nose
into Chris' hand. Slowly, cautiously, Chris moved his hand,
with Niatross following, lower and lower, past the boy's
head, past his tiny shoulders. Chris pulled his hand away
and Niatross, closing his eyes, rested his head in the boy's
lap.
The boy's intent expression melted into a faint,
tranquil smile. The tension gone from his frail body, he
laid his head alongside Niatross' powerful head, the same
head that jerked a man off his feet just hours before. The
two were secure in the only kind of embrace a horse and a
wheelchair-bound child could have. Boy and horse looked like
old friends, exchanging a wordless greeting understood only
by them.
Slowly, steadily, Niatross lifted up his head to look
down at his new friend. With a flick of his finger, the
child spun the wheelchair around. Still smiling and sitting
a little taller now, he disappeared as quickly as he'd
appeared, into the chilly night.
Ellen Harvey
Chicken Soup for the Dog & Cat Lover's Soul
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marty Becker, D.V.M.
and Carol Kline
Copyright 1999 Canfield and Hansen. All rights reserved.