Hello Friends,
A few weeks ago, Marylou and Angela shared with me that Dante, my most favorite rescue, would be leaving for a new home alongside his buddy Dutch and five other horses in need of sanctuary. They’ve all been through a lot. Some of them have already experienced being adopted and returned, and most of them, living with past trauma, are no longer able to work. Their new adoptive family is offering them a place to live out their lives with a sense of permanence and peace.
The news of this adoption is uplifting and inspiring, and I feel tremendous gratitude for the family who will give them the home they deserve. But there’s no way around it: I’m sad.
More than two years ago, I was immediately smitten when Dante first laid his giant mule head in my hands. After that, I visited him frequently, and each time, I left his field with a calm and full heart. Although I would love nothing more than to call him mine, at this time in my life adoption is not in the cards, so there’s not much to do beyond wishing him well.
Except this one thing.
After I heard that Dante would be leaving, I began to consider what he would say to the 13 Hands team if he could. I know this is a little ridiculous, and not just a little bit sappy. But here’s what came to me when, in my imagination, I gave him the opportunity to say goodbye with a pen and some paper. (Mules can’t use computers, of course.)
A Love Letter from Dante the Giant Mule
Dear Marylou and all of you at 13 Hands,
When I got off the truck that brought me to Clinton Corners, I had no idea what to expect. As you know, I’m an older guy, not quite as agile and energetic as I used to be. Grateful for the soft ground, the enormous pasture, and the All-You-Can-Eat Hay Buffet, I found myself slowly loosening the grip on my past. But I was plagued by the thought that I would be forced to work to exhaustion again. Thankfully, you read my scars correctly, and you reassured me–that would not be the case.
In the two years I’ve been here, I’ve learned a lot:
You have kind, gentle hands. You speak in soothing tones. You bring hay every day, without fail. Same with fresh water. You pick our fields. You maintain our fences and our sheds. You tend to our teeth and our hooves. You tend to our scratches and our wounds, even the gross ones. When we lose weight, you feed us more. You make sure we see the vet when necessary, and in more serious cases, you give us a stall in the barn to rest, to heal, and to soak up more love and attention than we could ever imagine.
You also know just how to handle our quirks. Not naming any names, but I know a few of us can be a handful. Like we might not love to be caught. Like we might see the halter in your hand and freak out and run the other way. Like despite that we’re covered in flies, we’re convinced a bottle of fly spray contains something that can kill us. Like we’re escape artists and make you round us up a mile away from our field. Like once we cause a ruckus, we act as if nothing was ever wrong. You know what I mean.
You gave me space and time and the best kind of attention. You helped me to recover from a very hard life. You showed me that there are humans I can trust. I am forever grateful to you for–well, everything–including never, ever making fun of my oversized ears. I’m actually quite proud of them. They made it possible to hear your loving voices.
With all my love,
Dante
P.S. That crazy gray-haired volunteer who visits me often and writes your blog is very emotional. Please tell her I’m going to be just fine.
