Rose Lee and Dakota

She was so brave. There was no quaver in her voice as she told me she would be taking her last ride and then I needed to come pick up her horse. Although Worthy Stables was in its infancy, it was not too early for me to have become jaded about donated horses. We’d already been given horses so old they were hanging on by a thread and a handful of calories in their bellies, abused horses so head-shy they’d dislocate a shoulder of anyone who tried to bridle them, and untouched colts whose owners assured us, “If you can load him, he’ll be a great horse.”
So when someone calls so adamant that I must come take their horse, naturally I was leery. But it was early days and the programs were growing. I had Bronco and Aztec and Smitty but they’d soon be working at their full respective capacities so I took a gamble. I convinced my mom to ride to the Mississippi gulf coast with me, pulling my ancient, little, navy blue Sundowner trailer.  I’ll confess, I almost went without my trailer so I could say, “I’ll be back soon” so I could have time to come up with an excuse not to pick him up.
But I liked her instantly so I gave in. Her name was Rose Lee, a fact that I found charming because my middle name is Rosalie after my dad’s mom and I always felt like my dad pronounced it, “Grandma Rose Lee.” Rose Lee had been diagnosed with ALS, what we used to hear called Lou Gehrig’s disease, and her doctor had advised her that her years in the saddle had come to an end. She told me she was driving into the woods for a week, riding until she’s exhausted, and then coming home to sell her horse hauling rig and send Dakota to his next career. Even in a short conversation, her excellent horsemanship was apparent. It’s easy to spot a hack and she wasn’t one. I felt cautiously optimistic.
My optimism flagged, however,  as we rolled past her house and toward her long, narrow pasture. There stood a slightly cresty, heavy legged horse, wooly as a mammoth with the curliest, unruly coat I had ever seen on a horse. “Oh no. I don’t want him, “ I said to my mom. “He has Cushings.”
Cushings is a progressive endocrine disorder. It usually comes with metabolic issues and can often be diagnosed almost by appearance alone.
Dakota’s appearance definitely looked like a classic cushingoid horse. Too much flesh under the mane, at the head of the tail. A thick, lackluster coat that seems unwilling to shed out.
I put on my professional, gracious face and stepped out to meet Rose Lee. She was a spitfire. She strode to us and offered a strong, personable handshake and smile, and hit the ground running telling us about Dakota and all the adventures they’d shared. As if she read my mind and saw the hesitation I was working so hard to hide, “Here are all his vet records. You can see that our excellent vets ruled out Cushings and metabolic issues. The only illness he’s ever had was a bout of ulcers when I first bought him.” Looking down at an immaculately kept record book, not to mention the neatly folded super premium feed bags tucked into the garbage can, I could only be assured. This woman had educated herself, gave this oddly scraggly horse excellent care, and very good vets had signed off on his health status. A combination that worked wonders on my concerned brain.
Her small equestrian property was unique. It was in a neighborhood, of sorts. A well-appointed ranch style house stood in front of a long, narrow paddock with a clean truck and horse trailer, obviously well maintained, better than my own, in fact, parked along side one fence. In the weeks following I would repeatedly consider getting a loan to buy her truck and trailer, which were for sale, but in the first full year running a non-profit, I just couldn’t justify the gamble of one more bill to manage. I still regret not taking that plunge, though. Nothing is punchier than a big Dodge and a Sundowner.
She couldn’t get on him to demonstrate his skills because her arm was in a sling. If I remember right, the early stages of her ALS had caused a fall or injury that was slow to heal. We were also in a bit of a hurry so she sent him with me, along with his very nice bridle and expensive, excellent bit, and agreed to our 30-90 day trial period after which I could bring him back if our work didn’t agree with him. “Of course, that’s fine, but you won’t be bringing him back, “ she had told me with the slightest hint of a wink.
Boy, was she right! It wasn’t three days later that I proclaimed from his back, “This may be the coolest horse I have ever ridden” and two weeks later that I allowed my first therapeutic rider onto his back. That’s an abnormally quick welcome into our specialized work but Dakota proved himself with every step he took after arriving at Worthy Stables.
Dakota had a gift. Rose Lee had given him the most important gift a horse can receive, the gift of outstanding training and consistent riding by a proficient and fair horseperson with clear boundaries and ever clearer release, which is the reward and confirmation of good work that all horses are constantly seeking. But he also had that indefinable factor that makes a horse perfect for the work we do. He was energetic and enthusiastic for pre-teens and teens who wanted to feel like they could lope off on adventures but he also seemed to tip-toe when he carried medically fragile children with their specially fitted equipment and additional helpers. An empathetic, intuitive horse is the kind of horse most owners hold onto. They know their worth. And, without this horrific diagnosis, I know Rose Lee would have kept Dakota forever. Here’s where she knew his worth, though. She knew he could do the work we do at Worthy Stables. She knew his mind was capable, his body strong, and his work ethic steady and consistent. So she gave him to that work. She gifted him to our riders who so deserved such a partner.
Sessions with Dakota were among the easiest hours I have ever worked. He was predictable and steady, willing and calm. I still laugh when I remember calling to tell Rose Lee how unflappable Dakota was in the arena, no matter the games or toys or therapeutic equipment or activity. Bombproof, they call it. I told her, “I believe we could do mounted shooting from Dakota and he wouldn’t miss a beat.” She replied, “I believe you could shoot AT Dakota and he wouldn’t miss a beat.” Peaceful demeanor and work ethic in one horse? Gold!
One year to the day after Dakota was signed over into my ownership, he came in from his paddock for breakfast wearing a buttercup petal just under his eye, round side down like a perfect, bright yellow teardrop. I took a picture and made mental note to go pull the buttercups from the fence line. Not an hour had past when I received a text message. “Rose Lee left this world today. I thought you would like to know that her battle with ALS is over.”
There are mysteries we will never understand in nature. There’s a connection to this world that those of us who sleep indoors and protect our feet from the bare earth will never have with the cycles and forces that move the outside world. I think somehow, something let Dakota have that tear for his friend and partner as she slipped from this world to the next. Maybe it was her kiss on his sweet face or God’s breeze blowing against him as He lifted Rose Lee’s spirit from this temporary home. I don’t know. Maybe it was just a horse grazing under invasive plants that should have been pulled sooner. But I like to believe it was more. I like to believe that creation honored the passing of this remarkable woman with a glossy yellow teardrop on her last horse’s sweet face.