They took my old horse away today

They took and old horse off the beach today, as we in the business of selling dreams to wishful mid-westerners call it, his name is Samoset. It’s an old Algonquin word, loosely translated, meaning “fearless warrior” as I have been told. He lost an eye as a mere teenager to another stallion in a battle for a mare. Those who still remember talk of the days and years of research by their original stewards and protectors, the “original” Corolla Wild Horse Fund, remember him all too well. Never mind the names, or the players, who have over the years kept a watchful eye over our small but magnificent herd; these majestic animals are living examples of not only reminders of pre-Colonial global exploration and domination, these creatures are living testimony that anything that nature sees to create and nurture, she will provide for. Like this magnificent breed, dating back to pre-Colonial American history, Samoset was a true exemplification of the warrior heart, a fine example of survival of the fittest. I called him “ my boy”, Hemmingway might of penned him, very poignantly, “destroyed but not defeated”, while to the great warrior poets, and real heroes of our time, such as my favorite, Charles Bukowski , this old horse would have been notoriously known around his waterhole as “ a good duker.” Like I said before, they took him away today after his last battle rendered him bloodied, dejected, and unable to any longer defend himself. And though it may sound crass, in the sense of how he lived, and under the suspicion that one more fight could be his last, I say against all that is humane and good, he should have been left to die as he lived, fighting for his own, a ruler of his own destiny. Again, “destroyed but not defeated!” Read on and see for yourselves if you would really see this any differently, were you in my shoes.
It had been some weeks since I spoke with the herd manager about what I would call his slow domestication. Everyone loved him, and one house of folks in particular loved him a bit too much. They would routinely feed him, just little sprinkles of food. There was enough to keep him hanging around, but never enough for the cops to find after I witnessed the feedings and called the law. Feeding of our wild horses is strictly prohibited and the same family killed a mare from his harem years before, indirectly. Feed had been put out in winter. Rains fell causing the feed to mildew, and the horses continued to eat it. Well, one day we found a mare that was in a canal next to Brant Road, right across the street from that house. She was in thirty seven degree water so a bullet proof necropsy was performed, and as it would turn out, the cause of death was a toxin produced by a spore put off by the mildew, causing the kidneys to shut down, and she died. Try as I might over the years, I sought prosecution of them but never to any avail. They were slippery, and the law up there really didn’t care. I felt defeated. In my opinion, their feeding of my boy led to his being an easy mark, a cheap target for the young bachelors when the spring foaling season brought testosterone and fighting to the minds of the up and coming stallions.
Recently, well last year I guess, my old boy began hanging around that house. I would literally stop by there on every tour as I knew where to find him, near the buffet. The residents of the house had put up NO HORSE TOURS signs near their house, but I ignored them, since they lived on a public street. I saw him nearly every day, standing in their yard. It was pathetic to me in a way, but at least I would get to see him, and show him off to my guests. I recalled tales of his lead mare Lucky # 7, of fights with younger stallions, and his continual will to overcome, despite his lack of sight. He had been reduced from his former glory when he finally lost the battle for his harem and his prized Lucky # Seven to a young bachelor named Cody. It wasn’t two weeks later that Seven succumbed to cancer, leaving the last colt of the two alone with a new harem and nobody to love him. I remember him running around our private pasture screaming for her as they took her away. People may shout Anthropomorphism when I recall these emotional outbursts, but those people live in books and labs. I lived my time with these beautiful beasts in the bush and on the beaches, trudging through the mud of the spring rains and the dry summer leaves of the maritime forests, with the Live Oaks, the Loblollys, the wild pigs and the Deer Ticks. I witnessed things no one would justify as even remotely possible based on scientific knowledge, but I felt them, in my heart. I saw the look on the face of a stallion as he first walked over to inspect a new foal born 30 feet away from my wet eyes. I know the scientists to be wrong. Lucky # Seven was no different as a “rule breaker.” In a world where a mare may stay with a harem for maybe two breeding seasons before being won by another stallion, I actually witnessed her gnashing teeth and fighting valiantly alongside her man, Samoset. I have never seen that behavior in any other mare. She stood by her man, to the very end. It seems that the loss of her man to Cody would eventually kill her. Her necropsy told us that she died of cancer, while the person who named her thought it a possible complication of a contraceptive dart. I say it was a broken heart. I remember her languishing, head bowed, in the shadows of rental cottages on the dog days that summer. We had heat indices in the one hundred thirty degree range that last week. I myself would even fall victim to that unbearable heat. I passed out at work from heat exhaustion and had to be hospitalized for dehydration. One thing always connected me to Seven, and that was our apparent connection to powerful summer storms. She would always have her foals during extremely low barometric pressure events, and in the same place, so I became aware of where and when to look for her newborns when those squalls of late June and early July came in. The afternoon I was in the hospital from the heat, there was a great and terrible storm going on. I was in and out of consciousness, yet every time I awoke my thoughts turned to Seven, perhaps it was the storms. Later that night after my release I received a call from our office manager telling me to take the day off. I assured her that I was fine, but she insisted, and said finally “dude, Seven.” She said nothing else, and I knew. I hung up the phone and cried.

I recalled, as I would later to my guests how she was part of a special harem to a rock and roll misfit like me. A one eyed horse, a mare named Lucky # 7, my date of birth and lucky number, and the times we had. I remembered risking my life several times, and illegally so to interfere with nature. One time for example, as Cody had been spending years trying to steal her from Samoset as she helped to fight him off, her next to last colt Storm was left in the middle of no man’s land so to speak. After a tremendous and dusty fight, Samoset, Seven and the rest of the harem were on one side of the dry dirt road, and Cody and a few other bachelors were on the other side, with Storm in the middle, and confused. I observed the young boys dropping their ears back and creeping in on the months old colt. I knew what was coming next, so against the law and common sense I jumped from my truck and ran at Storm, whooping and waving my arms, clapping my hands until eventually hitting him like a linebacker hits a tackling dummy as I moved him over to his mom and dad. It was technically not only illegal, but arguably stupid and put me at serious risk of not only losing my job but my life. This was my relationship with these horses, personal, and on my own rules. Say what you will, no matter.
So this brings me back to where I started. Storm is gone, as is Blaze and Seven, and Samoset was being, in my opinion, domesticated by the same ones that inadvertently killed one of his mares just a few years before, and they continued to feed. I had recently emailed the herd manager asking him about the very situation, and weeks after that confronted him on the beach while on a tour. He explained in very insufficient and in my opinion neglectful fashion that he horse was old, and he had spoken to those people on numerous occasions and that they seemed to have developed a good relationship with that old horse, as he put it. If you ask me, this was blatant mismanagement and laziness on his part, and I will forever stand by that. Less than two weeks later Samoset, my boy, would be gone from my life. After ten years of our talks and playful interactions, my near death experiences rescuing two of his colts, he was taken from me. The last day I saw him was a Friday.
I had two tours, one at nine and one at eleven. It was spring and all of the bachelors were in fighting moods, borne of the chemicals in the air. As I approached the house I could see something was not right, Samoset was limping, and as I approached he turned to show me his good side. His good eye cut and bleeding, his ribs covered in abrasions and lacerations and his back right patella was weak. I took pictures and called it in. On my second tour it took me a while to find him. He was on the opposite side of the road under freshly blooming Mimosas next to the canal we had found one of his former mares in years before. He was lying in the sun, resting, but aware. I called “Samie” as I always did, “come on out, these people want to see you!” He shook his head as if to dislodge a burr from his mane and my guests laughed, “he just told you no!” So, I got out of the truck, and again breaking the law I crept closer, not only to get them a good picture, but to make further assessments of his wounds for the Corolla Wild Horse Fund. As I left him in that little green sunshine room and walked back to the truck I noticed the people covering their mouths in astonishment to keep from laughing. I turned, and he had followed me to the truck. I said “come on boy, you’re going to get me fired” jokingly as he bowed his head, shaking that kingly mane once more. He blew his nose like they do when they are grazing and get a bunch of dust, not quite a whinny or a neigh, but communication nonetheless.
I went home for the weekend and thought nothing of it. He had been through much worse and always bounced back. These horses of the Carolinas have been likened to “The Horses of Kings”, and he was their King if you ask me. Well, Monday morning came, and I led my tour down that road and saw no sight of my old friend. And during my lunch break between tours I was jabbering about something as the office manager called me outside and told me to go home. I was shocked and asked why, and all she said was, “they took him off yesterday.” I don’t remember my reply, just my walk away, and a few cigarettes before unceremoniously piling myself into the old Ford and limping home. They had taken my old horse away and I wasn’t even there. To compound matters pictures started to surface on the CWHF website, and the nickname “Cyclops” became his unofficial name to all the weekend renters and passersby. I became enraged for some reason. I had not called him by that name since he lost Seven in that last scrap, he was never the same, and I chose to never call him by less than his registered, given name. I called him by his true name on the CWHF website much to the chagrin of the “new” powers that rule, the ones who for reasons I cannot currently go into the details of neither recognize his name or lineage, nor have record to back it up. I have access to those records. I was made to look like a fool, a simple tour guide, a derogatory term if you have experienced what I have at the hands of the officials and the residents of his home turf, and so be it. I was asked to clarify my statement about his “given name” while at the same time being smacked down in print by a representative of that board, and as I did, I drew nothing in return but silence. So I begin to write the book, eventually backing all of these assertions I have made with fact and documentation, and I will make sure that the stories and tales of this King of the horses of Kings and his Queen are recorded for the future generations of our wild herd lovers.