I was definitely the owner of the Arabian horse on Grandpa Paul’s farm though he was far from a gift. When I bought him I had no idea what I was doing, and if the price was typical of what one should pay for a horse, but he was by far the most beautiful horse on the “Horses, Horses, Horses” farm.

I had heard of rescue horses and didn’t think much about it then, but have since concluded that the one who submitted an ad to sell the perfect pony, when in fact I bought a horse, was rescuing horses. There was nothing about the farm that suggested there was any income at all to spend on horses nor did it show the environment usually associated with a horse farm. It was just an old farmhouse surrounded by all sorts of animal cages, scattered about on what may once have been a lawn. The remnants of old farm buildings, no longer red, were available for free access to any horse seeking shelter. Accumulated manure had become ramps up into the barns.

I don’t recall seeing any functional farm machinery, or finding any evidence of hay being stored for the winter. The neighboring farmer must have been helping in the horse rescue effort. He had very likely supplied the large round bale of hay that had been dumped off to feed the horses in the barnyard. I had heard the woman who sold Zack to me tell a man to cut open a new bale with a chain saw.

Where had she gotten all those horses? There must have been some way for her to get them for nothing. I really don’t know, but certainly she loved her horses and didn’t want me to just buy, what I thought was her most beautiful horse, and not take good care of him! I probably should have gotten the gentle brown mare she recommended.

I have heard of advertisement being called “bait and switch”. A cheap docile pony to lead around the farmyard to delight my grandchildren had been the bait. Clearly she was ready with a rather large selection of horses and offered the brown mare, but I switched to the most beautiful horse I saw. I just couldn’t resist the horse, something like buying a new car with all sorts of “bells and whistles”.

She may have been reluctant to let him go, but she did offer offer deal. Her heart was clearly to have the horse well cared for and maybe I looked honest and not too old, poor or weak, to do the job. The contract we signed could be said to cast some doubt on the true ownership of the horse. I wasn’t free to dispose of Zack any way I chose. If I decided I no longer wanted him, I was to return him to her and agreed to pay $50 a month for her to care for my horse.

I have found out since that “Rescue Horse” wasn’t a government paid program, but rather a law that allowed interested individuals, who wanted to rescue horses, to register a non-profit organization, a 501(c)(3), which could be tax exempt. They could also issue tax deductible receipts to any donors who chose to participate. If she had established such an organization, the non-profit status would certainly not be called into question if IRS ever visited the farm. Maybe the neighboring farmers, who dropped off hay from time to time, were the donors and I might become one if I ever had to return Zack to her.

Zack turned out to have a mind of his own, yet he somehow decided that living on Grandpa Paul’s farm was acceptable. It wasn’t too long before I got a call from my neighbor up the hill to come get my horse. The Patryns had four or five horses on their farm and Zack had apparently gone visiting. Their horses seemed to be enjoying life on his farm and I know their owner just liked having them around. They got little attention, though very probably their kids had enjoyed them, as I anticipated Zack would be enjoyed by my grandchildren. Horses are very important to girls at a certain age, and I could remember how much I had enjoyed reading about Alec Ramsay’s horse, the Black Stallion. That horse, a great Arabian created by Walter Farley, was my favorite horse of all time when I was a young boy at Rethy!

I had no idea if Zack would be hard to catch, and still hadn’t finished reading my book, Horses for Dummies, but I took some of his grain, in a small rubber bucket, and his halter with me. Only Alec Ramsay could handle the great Black Stallion. Zack was still a stranger to me and was so lean and fast, I might never get him back.

It turned out that he was hungry and recognized me, or the smell of the grain in the bucket. He came. He put his head down to eat the grain and just let me buckle on the halter, even though I got it wrong on the first try. I led him home. Maybe this was going to work out perfectly. My horse was following me! The crumbs of grain, still in the bucket, no doubt were the incentive for him to follow so cooperatively, not the magnetic personality of his owner.

Zack became accustomed to my regular visits to give him probably more grain than I should have. He seemed to be sure that it was his right, and if I fed the chickens first, he would reach out to grab at my jacket. His free access to the small hay field certainly helped, but before long he was getting fat. My book said he should have regular exercise.

I had none of the qualities required of a horse trainer, least of all the confidence to communicate to the horse that I was his owner and that he needed to obey me. I had much more to do than just work with my horse, so, we compromised.

I fed him and took him for a walk once in a while. He was less and less willing to let me put the bridle on his head, so I bribed him with grain to hold still. He didn’t. My book told me to cross tie him, so occasionally I did, but the walks became ever less frequent!

Zack walked willingly enough but didn’t get the idea that I was leading him. He had the notion that he could go wherever he pleased and just drag me along! The only way I could get him to obey was to make him go around in a circle, putting him off balance by turning his head around and leaning against him. I certainly didn’t want him to try galloping! We went in lots of small circles on our short walks.

My son, Jeff, had ridden horses at the Buels while he and his future wife got to know each other. Jeff always road Rascal, the more spirited and disobedient of their horses, and had the strength and confidence to make him behave. Zack would have to obey him. The Buels gave us their Western saddle to use on Zack. The grandkids dream to ride a horse on Grandpa Paul’s farm became a reality but only when Jeff came to help his dad. Actually, I was watching him, and maybe helping at times.

Things went fairly well and I am sure there are pictures in the family album showing our grandkids on the horse. A drawing, that came from Sonya, showed a fat grey horse with a fairly round small person sitting on it. The childish writing declared how wonderful it was to come to Grandma and Grandpa Paul’s farm where they could ride a horse. She didn’t mention helping weed the garden or even the wonderful food. Zack was a much lighter grey, almost white and he wasn’t nearly that fat!

Zack was getting so little exercise that I gave him the cheapest maintenance feed I could find at the mill and yet he often raced down his pasture simply for the pleasure of running. He appeared to be enjoying life and wasn’t much bother. He respected the single white ribbon of electric fencing and didn’t even step over it when it sagged to the ground, hanging from the yellow insulators. Though the neighbor’s horse came to visit, ignoring the fence, he declined her invitation to return the call. I’m glad he was a gelding, not a registered Arabian stallion.

In the winter the drifting snow made the wire almost invisible and he still stayed in his pasture, often digging down in the snow with his front hooves. He preferred the fresh grass under the snow to the first cutting hay I gave him in the barn. Why he chose to roll in the snow, I don’t know, but his coat had thickened and he didn’t seem to mind the cold at all. He was breathtakingly beautiful when he ran down the field plowing up the powdery snow. His clean dappled coat contrasted very little with the white winter backdrop.

In the spring his thick coat shed the rain, sometimes freezing on the surface, but he would still be outside most of the day. He was always in the barn in the morning when I came to bring him water and grain. He was enjoying his life and liked having me give him all he could ever want.

Sometimes he became absolutely filthy, having rolled in the mud that was in the barnyard. He would occasionally stand patiently and let me brush off the mud and loose hair, probably because it felt so good to be scratched with the steel curry brush, and to get rid of his hot winter coat. He never willingly received the pungent fly repellant wipe, and wouldn’t tolerate the grey fly mask with the soft red edges. That mask disappeared somewhere in his pasture. He preferred to whisk away the flies with his flowing mane and tail and could always enter the cool barn where the flies didn’t bother him. The fly spray Zack wouldn’t tolerate on his face or body appeared to repel the flies when sprayed on the wood in the barn. Could life be any better?

Summer came and so did the grandkids, with lots of plans to ride the horse. Grandpa Paul wasn’t running a dude ranch with the horse all saddled up and ready for rides so they had to wait until Jeff could come and help.

Zack had become so accustomed to the independence and freedom, in his life of luxury, that he was like a huge spoiled brat looking for treats and petting. He liked his grain and had chewed off the far edge of the grain box lid by his repeated efforts to open it with his teeth, reach down, and grab a bag of grain before the lid slammed shut by itself. The bigger grandkids could easily open the grain box, if they worked together, and scoop out grain from any bag in there and feed him. He was always begging for more. He looked for opportunities to reach out over the lid, if it was ever propped open, so he could lift out a full bag. If he succeeded, he could eat so much that he could kill himself if not treated quickly. God didn’t design horses to eat all the grain they can, nor did he create people to live only for pleasure.

There were new kittens in the hay loft but little Seth was too small to climb up the ladder, so he went back to feeding Zack.

They say horses just know and understand little children and will not hurt a child. I wonder about that. Certainly the horse can sense the attitude of those who are near him. Seth had Down’s Syndrome and the horse knew that Seth had no fear of him and presented no threat. Seth offered his love to everybody. He couldn’t open the grain bin and Zack was still there looking for more.

Seth was too small to do much, but he had seen all the leather straps hanging on the back of the tack room door and knew that his uncle Jeff used those to lead the horse. He wanted the horse to come outside with him.

How he accomplished it we’ll never know, but he called out to let his mom and Grandma know that he had Zack. There he was, sitting on the ground pulling up some specially selected grass and offering it to Zack. A western style bridle was hanging from Zack’s neck, somehow hooked on his ear, and he was patiently receiving the small handfuls of the best Seth could find. With his lips, Zack took what was offered in love, a few blades at a time.

It seemed strange to see such a powerful horse willingly led by a small child, with a bridle, that wasn’t even buckled. Zack had just decided to follow the little one that he knew couldn’t possibly challenge him, or make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

I have to admit that Zack never did anything useful on Grandpa Paul’s farm, not even give me the pleasure of riding him on the trails in the woods. He simply refused to cooperate when I took him for walks. When I rode him he just stopped, having made up his mind to go nowhere, though he did allow Jeff to lead him and give people rides. It was work to get him to do anything useful.

To have him simply live on my farm so I could feed him and serve him made me wonder sometimes why I even owned him.

There are people who will take anything they can get, to enjoy life all they can, and seem to have the feeling that others exist solely to serve them. They feel they need do nothing useful, take no responsibility and just entertain themselves, look beautiful, eating all they want and doing what they please.

Is that the sole purpose of man?