The Magic Cookie | Miraculous Horse Stories

By: Ashley Bleas

My name is Ashley and I’m fifteen. When I was six, I suffered a near drowning. One afternoon, I was brought along with my neighbors to go fishing after my mom’s friend had died. While my neighbors were putting a worm on my hook, I had seizure and slipped into the water. When they found me I was unconscious. At the hospital my parents were told that I most likely wasn’t going to survive. I was in a coma and the doctors were unsure about massive brain damage.

My parents were told to prepare funeral arrangements and before they left, my dad bent down and whispered something in my ear. The next morning I had awakened from my coma after a week and was asking a question over and over again. “Am I really going to get a pony”? As it turns out, my dad had said the day before “If you wake up I’ll buy you your pony”. Miraculously that morning the x-rays showed that I no longer had pneumonia and showed no signs of brain damage. I was having problems with my mobility, but was able to walk within days. I now have an American Saddlebred gelding called The Magic Cookie, his barn name is Monty. I show him in equitation and I believe that without horses, I wouldn’t be alive today. Monty’s favorite treat is drinking cherry coke out of a can. He is my miracle horse; he helped me survive and gave me something to believe in.

Ashley Bleas

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The Magic Cookie| Miraculous Horse Stories

That fall I started fifth grade. I wasn’t really a troublemaker, but my new teacher and I clashed on the first day. Even then I could tell that it was going to be a rough year. My teacher and I continued to have occasional problems. Thank God I had Bert during all of this. He was the one thing that I could count on. Bert’s warm furry neck was often used to catch my tears as I would bury my face in his coat and let the tears of frustration loose.

He was my refuge from my troubles. At the end of fifth grade, things had improved at school and I credit this to Bert. In June, my grandfather and cousin died and again, Bert’s neck caught my tears. By the time sixth grade started, my riding, thanks to Bert’s patience and occasional tricks, had improved. Sixth grade was much easier for me, thanks to my “learning experiences” the previous year.

I had outgrown the nearly 25-year-old Bert, so he was put up for sale. Even though I knew it was for the best, I was fervently hoping that Bert wouldn’t be sold for a while longer. The day came sooner than I wanted.

On April 21,2001, my barn was having a tack swap. We had put Bert in a stall so that potential buyers could see him, and sure enough, in the space of a few hours, Bert was no longer mine. I, of course, was heartbroken, even though it was for the best. Gone were my days with Bert.

When I look back, I realize how truly lucky I was to have him. He had a great personality. The mixture of cute, sweet, a bit of silliness, patience, and a dash of mischief made Bert special. He had his occasional bad days, of course, but he was never mean. Bert transformed me from an irresponsible, awkward, immature, naïve child to a confident, open-minded, more mature, and more responsible pre-teen. He taught me so much about life. Bert was one of my best friends. He never said, “I told you so”, never yelled at me, and didn’t care what I looked like. Bert and I loved each other and were a good match.

I believe that Bert helped me discover who I am, and once I was back on my feet, he left, having accomplished making me, me. On December 29, 1998, he ambled into my life, heart, and soul, and on April 21, 2001, he ambled out of my life but not out of my heart or soul. There he’ll remain, reminding me of all he taught me, reminding me of the time in which he was my beacon in darkness, reminding me of my best friend. We all have horses that change our life, work miracles for us, and Bert was my miracle.[/private]

By: Megan Welch

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Bert- My Miracle | A Story Of A Paint Pony

Sometimes life leads us down paths that we don’t recognize but somehow know we belong on. It could be said that we pick them, but often they pick us. Spunky, a reining horse, was put on a new path, from high power athlete to changing a special Down’s Syndrome boy’s life in record time and without missing a step.

By Lisa Rodriguez as told by Jeffrey Palmer D.V.M

Jeffrey Palmer D.V.M still lives in Southern Oregon and we stop and visit him when we pass by. He is a consultant to some of the top Reiners in the US.

I had just returned from a horse-buying trip to Oklahoma and Texas finding nothing to please me. I spotted an ad run in a local Southern California horse-trading magazine and made a call to see the horse. Sometimes you can travel a long way only to find what you want is right in your own backyard.

When I first made eye contact with this smart looking dark bay quarter horse, I didn’t know he had plans for me. During my inspection of him, he watched me closely with his steady bright eyes. I was impressed with his gorgeous combination of rock hard muscle and brains. As an Equine Veterinarian, I have worked on thousands of top horses and I recognized this horse was the one for which I had been searching. It could be said that I picked him, but I truly believe he picked me.

Both his breeding and training were designed for performing Reining in an arena. Like his sire, Spunky showed himself a top athlete, very fast and powerful. Two top competition trainers had taught him lessons on turning rapid complete spins on his hind legs and sliding to a stop from bursting sprints of speed. A thrill to ride for the experienced horseman, this horse could really perform, which is why he got his name.

After the first ride, I knew we had a special bond. Spunky took a few months, as many horses do, to settle into being handled by someone new. To ease his stress I would ride him along the banks of the estuary and down the trail from the barns. By nature, he loved the trail and started to relax more under saddle. I let a few friends try riding him, but he would get over excited and difficult for them. Spunky thought he owed me the honor of being the only person he would work for without an argument. You could call him a one-man horse after our first year together.

Having recently retired, I had more time to ride and adventure out on the open road with my horses. I would load Spunky in the trailer and head out to explore parts unknown. One such trip took me to Oregon. After being there a few days, I felt something strangely special about the area. Deep in my soul stirred a mysterious spiritual calling. I tried reasoning with myself to return to the life that I knew, my friends and my home. It didn’t work. Impetuously, I bought a ranch in southern Oregon and stayed. My friends all asked me why the heck I was moving up there, leaving the life I had built. In answer, I told them I wasn’t sure at all, but somehow, for me this was a special place, and I needed to be there.

On the new ranch, I went to work fixing and fencing a few acres of pasture close to the house. That way I would be able to keep a lookout on the horses from the front room windows. My new neighbors came over to see what was happening and introduce themselves. We instantly became friends and they soon introduced me to their four beautiful children.

One of their children has Down’s Syndrome. Matthew is 13 years old and has never spoken. He does all his communicating by signing. Although he had always loved horses, his family didn’t own any. A few years earlier they started him in riding lessons at a stable that works only with disabled people. The lesson consisted of sitting on the horse, with a person leading its head and others walking on either side. After a few months, Matthew started wanting more independence with the horse. Unfortunately, this was not allowed at the therapeutic riding school and no other riding school would take on the liability. The limits of the riding lessons infuriated Matthew and that combined with the emotional and physical changes of growing up caused him to abandon riding altogether.

I often got together with Matthew’s family and during one of their visits for an early dinner something surprising happened. As soon as they arrived, Matthew started pestering his Mother to take him out to visit the horses. He had often fed and petted them during visits, so to get him out of her hair she let him go out ahead of us to the front pasture. Occasionally he would chase the horses in the pasture, much to his parent’s alarm. But I asked them to “leave him be a boy,” just let him bond and play; the horses were gentle and loved his visits. After they had all run around, he would find a comfortable spot and sit cross-legged in-between the three horses while they ate their hay.

With Matthew now off to the pasture we could finally relax and chat and we lost track of the time. Eventually we glanced out the window and to our amazement, saw Matthew sitting on Spunky’s back. Matthew had climbed up on the new pasture fence and Spunky had simply allowed him to crawl aboard! We watched from the house as he hugged his neck, and played with his mane and even leaned backwards resting along his back, all the while Spunky grazed. His parents were astonished! No saddle, no bridle and the first time Matthew had attempted such a courageous act. Spunky appeared unconcerned about the boy on his back. I thought this was a one-person horse! This is a highly trained reining horse that turned so fast underneath me I lost my balance and had to grab the saddle horn! Oh my gosh! My fears started to well up inside of me; I could not let this beautiful child get hurt. If something spooked the horse, he would surely fall off. I pleaded with his folks to stay in the house and not rush toward Matthew. His parents listened to me and stayed frozen, watching as we saw that a magical bond had been created between child and animal.

Quietly we made our way out to the pasture. Matthew rode Spunky over to us, all the while relaxed and smiling. His mother pausing, gleefully waved to him while his father approached the two and stood at the fence not sure what to do. Matthew dismounted by simply sliding off Spunky’s silken brown back, came over, and gave me a big hug in thanks. His mother then signed to her son asking him if he was happy.

He proudly signed back to her,  “Yes, I am happy!”

Tearfully she told me, “This is the very first time he has ever used the happy sign, he always uses the angry sign.”

I asked her,  “You mean in his whole life he never signed that he was happy?”

“No” she replied, “never once.”

We were all tearfully overwhelmed, and spent the rest of the day saturated in profound bliss. This incredible moment reconfirmed my belief that God brought the horses and I to this special place I call Horse Heaven. I wasn’t sure why I had felt a force pulling me here until that moment. I have often said that most riders do not know what it is like to sit upon a truly great horse. Matthew now knows.

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“The Happy Sign” | Reining Horse & A Down’s Syndrome Boy

Horse Story by Butte Dawson

Holding William by Butte Dawson

I’m not sure why certain people come into your life, but come they do, and you are forever changed by it. That was the case the day a young troubled girl named Annie came to our ranch to stay for a time. I knew her parents weren’t together, but I didn’t know the details of the split. All I knew was that her mother had called, and with a sad voice asked me if Annie could spend some time out on my ranch. “Absolutely, “I told her. I have 60 acres in a beautiful valley at the base of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, and there is nothing I enjoy more than having young people experience the joy of working with animals, specifically horses. I have two mares, Biscuit and Gravy, and they are a handful, especially now that Biscuit is with foal.

I had never met Annie, and I was only casually acquainted with her mother, however, everyone in the area knows me, and I have no doubt that one of my good friends steered this woman with her little girl my way. She arrived on a Thursday afternoon when the sun was strong and the will to work weak. I was sitting on my porch with my Jack Russell Terrier, Jerky, named after his favorite snack. A small figure got out of the car and I hoisted myself to my feet and went out to greet her. “Annie, this is Mr. Dawson.” I moved past her mother and knelt down in front of her. “Call me Butte,” I said in a low soothing tone, the same tone I use when calming a frightened horse. She kept her head down and I couldn’t really get a good look at her because of the little hood on her sweatshirt. Her mother’s voice increased in volume, “Say hello to Butte, Annie.” She looked up, and I took a slow breath. The scar ran down her cheek to the jawbone, an angry color of reddish purple that indicated it was not that old. Despite the scar, she was a pretty girl, with auburn hair and green eyes that had an apprehensive look. I winked at her and said, “Save the hellos for the horses.” She looked at the pasture that held the mares, and I urged her to go over for a better look. Jerky followed her and I turned to her mother. “What happened to her?” I asked. Her mother looked down in shame, “Her father did that.” “And where is he now?” I asked. “Prison,” she said. I shook my head and wondered how a father could do that to this precious little girl. There isn’t a lot that makes sense when it comes to the behavior of men. That’s why I surround myself with animals. Her mother grabbed my elbow, “I was hoping you could help her come out of her shell. Ever since the incident, she has withdrawn from everything. She won’t even let me hold her.” I told Annie’s mother that she could stay with my wife and me for as long as she wanted.

A week went by, and this little girl just broke my heart. The shell she had retreated into was hard as the winter ground, and I didn’t know how to get her to open up. Jerky couldn’t even get a scratch behind the ear from Annie. As the days went by she seemed to be slipping farther and farther away. Animals and people need physical contact; it’s essential to their well being. If something didn’t change soon, this little girl would probably end up in a hospital, medicated and under the watch of doctors. I’m good with horses, but this was a challenge I wasn’t sure I could meet.

I heard Biscuit whinny and I sat up in bed. I looked at the clock, it was3: 30 am. She can’t be wanting breakfast yet, I thought. Then my sleepy brain cleared itself and I realized that Biscuit was probably foaling. I leapt into my clothes and leaving the bedroom, looked in on Annie. She wasn’t in bed, and my heart started beating like a war drum. I ran downstairs, and seeing that she wasn’t there headed for the barn fearing what I might find. There was Biscuit lying down in the straw, moving nervously to find a good position to give birth. Kneeling beside Biscuit with a comforting hand on her neck was Annie. Annie looked scared. “Something’s wrong with her,’ she stammered. Those were the first words I had heard out of her mouth since she had arrived at the ranch. “Don’t worry,” I said, “she’s going to have a baby, and you and I are going to help her.”The worry and fear that I had seen in her eyes was now replaced by determination and fire. “What do you want me to do?” she said in a strong voice. “Hold her head in your lap, and try to keep her calm,” I whispered. Annie held Biscuit’s head and stroked her neck. I was concentrating on the other end of my mare, but I could hear Annie’s voice, strong yet comforting. “It’s going to be all right girl, you’re going to do just fine. I know you can do it, be strong Biscuit.” This little wounded girl sounded anything but, as she comforted Biscuit.

The most glorious sight a horseman can see was unfolding before me. First the little front hooves appeared, then the nose, ears, and after a tense moment, the shoulders. Out popped Biscuit’s beautiful foal. He was buckskin with a beautiful black mane and tail. Annie was standing beside me in awe of what was happening. Suddenly a thought reared in my head. “Go ahead Annie, touch the foal, Biscuit won’t mind,” I said, trying not to sound like a proud papa. Annie looked at Biscuit as if to ask for permission, and Biscuit bobbed her head up and down. Annie knelt down next to the foal and started caressing him. The foal responded and nuzzled into her hand. The imprinting was taking place, but I didn’t say anything. “What is your name?” she whispered sweetly. “How about you give him a name,” I said smiling. She thought for a moment and said, “I think he should be called William.” “William is a fine name for this fine buckskin colt,” I replied. “Then William you shall be,” she cooed to the nuzzling foal. I don’t know how much time passed before I decided to head back to the house, but Annie stayed behind with William in her arms.

That colt grew up to be a mighty fine horse, and his owner turned out to be a mighty fine young woman. Annie’s love for William was the catalyst for her lifelong love and passion for horses, and for herself, and the fine young man she married. She became like a daughter to us, and we marveled at how beautiful, talented, and confident she had become. I have no doubt that the turning point in her young tragic life, was the night she spent in my barn, talking softly to Biscuit, and holding her William.

Butte Dawson

Rosepine Ranch

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Horse Story | Holding William by Butte Dawson

My name is Ashley and I’m fifteen. When I was six, I suffered a near drowning. One afternoon, I was brought along with my neighbors to go fishing after my mom’s friend had died. While my neighbors were putting a worm on my hook, I had seizure and slipped into the water. When they found me I was unconscious.

At the hospital my parents were told that I most likely wasn’t going to survive. I was in a coma and the doctors were unsure about massive brain damage. My parents were told to prepare funeral arrangements and before they left, my dad bent down and whispered something in my ear. The next morning I had awakened from my coma after a week and was asking a question over and over again. “Am I really going to get a pony”? As it turns out, my dad had said the day before “If you wake up I’ll buy you your pony”.

Miraculously that morning the x-rays showed that I no longer had pneumonia and showed no signs of brain damage. I was having problems with my mobility, but was able to walk within days. I now have an American Saddlebred gelding called The Magic Cookie, his barn name is Monty. I show him in equitation and I believe that without horses, I wouldn’t be alive today. Monty’s favorite treat is drinking cherry coke out of a can. He is my miracle horse; he helped me survive and gave me something to believe in.

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The Magic Cookie | A Miraculous Horse Story

All too vivid are the memories of that March morning when I received a phone call that Roy was injured and I’d better get there fast. The accident must have happened during the night, because by morning Roy was weak from loss of blood. His hind leg was severed below the hock and blood was pouring down his leg. His head was hanging low and he looked like life was draining slowly from his body. Looking up I saw a big hole in the side of the steel building with jagged steel pieces protruding as though a small bomb burst through the building.

Imperial Roy is a 3-1/2 year old Quarter Horse, beautiful, sleek, smart, spirited, and could run like the wind. He was a present from my husband and me to John, our eight-year-old grandson. The special bond they shared gave me the reason to fight for Roy’s life.

It was horrible getting Roy into the trailer to take him to the hospital. While struggling to get him into the trailer, he fell to the ground in front of the trailer doors. Watching him try to get his body back up was a pitiful sight. Upon arrival at the clinic, examination provided a morbid diagnosis: completely severed suspensory ligament, severed deep flexor tendon, severed superficial flexor tendon, and severed artery. The leg just dangled; there was nothing holding his bones and muscles together. His ligament and tendons were cut through. The doctor recommended putting him down. I couldn’t do it. Roy’s eyes seemed to tell me something:

I want to live. I’ll fight to live. Pain—yes, I’ll take it. I’m young. Just give me a chance. Please, just give me a chance. I’m not in control. I depend on you. I depend on you to know me. I’m a fighter. My natural instincts are to survive. I shall be tested against pain, against all odds, to not give up. Know that I want to fight even if I lose. I’m not strong now, neither physically nor emotionally, but if you give me a chance, it will be worth it all—for me, for you. If we both lose, we tried our very best.
Successful surgery was not guaranteed. Too many things could go wrong. Infection was a great possibility. Biting off his cast was a probability. Cast sores could occur and ulcers or colic could develop from long use of antibiotics and other medications. The prognosis was not good. The expense was tremendous. Roy would have to be stabled at the clinic for at least three months. That alone seemed an impossible task for a horse as spirited as Roy.

I was haunted with my decision to put him through this surgical ordeal. Everytime I saw him I questioned if I did the right thing. It was so pitiful to see how he would swing his leg back and forth, day after day, limping around his 10’ x 10” stall. To give himself relief, he would press his body against the stall wall, slide down, then drop down to the floor in order to relieve his pain. Watching him fight to get back up was even worse.

In the evening as I knelt next to him, with his head in my lap, his eyes painfully looking up at me, I would vow to have him put out of his misery in the morning. The next day would come and I couldn’t do it. I prayed to God that he give Roy the strength to keep fighting.

Five weeks passed and he appeared to limp worse. The decision was made to take Roy back into surgery and see what was going on underneath the cast. I asked to be allowed into the surgery room and view his leg after the cast was removed. What a sight it is to see a 1000 lb animal lying on a table hooked up to intravenous with an oxygen mask over his face. Upon removal of the cast we saw pressure sores on his fetlock, but the sewn ligament and tendons seemed to be intact, so he was recast for another four weeks.

I visited him every morning before work and every evening after work in order that he would not fall into a depression. I’d stop at the roadside and bring him grass. He’d hear my footsteps and recognize my walk down the aisle to his stall. He’d neigh when he saw me, and it was as though he waited for that moment when I’d appear.

The big day came to bring him home. I was concerned that the other horses would reject him, and perhaps harm him because he was no longer the “king pin.” He was the injured, the weak, and the most vulnerable. He’d be at the bottom of the pecking order. I watched how each of the 3 horses came up to him and put their nostrils against his. They snorted and sniffed him as if to make sure it was really him. He stood perfectly still and let them welcome him back into the herd. While I watched that scene of horse behavior, I was comforted knowing that Roy’s mother remembered her son.

Almost a year has gone by. Roy is a veterinarian’s miracle. He showed me courage, and he taught me that life is a gift from God worth fighting for.
Beautiful horse, you inspired me when you were healthy and vibrant; you inspire me now as you fight to survive. Everytime I look at you, you give me strength. You fulfill my soul and my need for freedom. I thank God I kept you. Selfish, yes, but I need you. I wish I could have taken some of that pain. I knew you wanted to live. I heard you. Your survival gives me strength more than you’ll ever know. Roll around in the sand again; kick up your heels; I’d love to see you run like the wind again someday. For now, I’ll take a day at a time, thanking God each time I lay my eyes on your beautiful body and look into your beautiful eyes that I didn’t put you down.

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Miraculous Imperial Roy | A Horse Story Of An Old Quarter

Mother and I looked at each other our jaws dropped open. Mother looked back at the doctor, “It’s Summer time and she is an active nine year old. Could we first try keeping her on crutches?” she requested. They looked at me. I quickly told them I’d do anything to stay out of casts. To our relief, the Doctor agreed.

I was devastated, life as I knew it had evaporated. I moped about like a zombie as miserable days passed. Our house sat on the bluff above a wide beach. I sat on the verandah and watched my friends surf and play on the warm sand without me.

One mid-summer morning Mother’s friend called suggesting that I try riding one of their horses. They owned three trail horses and they weren’t riding one of them. She thought that one in particular would be suitable for me.
What! They have horses?! How had that information escaped this horse crazy kid? A kid that was pried off her Wonder Horse to eat. A kid that ran outside every evening before bed to wish on a star for a horse.

That next week would change my life forever. Five miles down the ocean bluff from our house was an old rough wooden boarding stable with 45 glorious horses. Corrugated metal roofing ran down the center of the rows of large stalls. It showed the wear of ocean storms and wood chewing horses. To me it looked like a glowing castle. Mother and I parked along the salty white fence of the sandy riding arena. The motley group of  kids riding inside the arena curiously watched me hobble along on my crutches toward stall number 29.  Inside stood a dusty rusted metal tack shed, but to me it looked like a treasure chest. The large shed contained only four things: grooming tools, a bareback pad, hackamore bridle and a big sack of alfalfa molasses sweet feed. Then, emerging from the shadowed shelter in the back of the stall appeared ‘Dundee’; a friendly freckle faced camel brown dun mare. She was tall, bony and unkempt; the most beautiful horse I had ever seen.

For the next three years, I appeared almost daily at the stable to swap my two weak legs for Dundee’s four strong ones. Never mentioning to my Mother all the falls I took, I learned to ride. Mounted bareback, Dundee and I moved as one. I spent my days cruising miles of grass pastures in the sea breeze. Meandering down the steep hills to the beach, we galloped on golden sand and swam in the blue Pacific.

I taught Dundee how to catch a wave and bodysurf to shore, just as my Father had taught me. We would stand in the ocean, watching outside for the best wave of the set, the one of the right height and shape. As the wave approached, we would move out toward it, pushing through the closer ones. A moment before the chosen wave reached us we would turn to face the beach. As the wave rose behind her I clung to her slippery wet neck, my fingers laced tight in the mane and we would start to canter in. At just the right moment, I would cue her to jump. At that moment the wave lifted her large body and carried it toward the shore. We loved that feeling of being weightless, as if no longer connected to our bodies.

As the wave washed over us I was lifted above her back, my legs pulled up to a jumping position. As the wave set us back down I regained my balance on her back and we cantered ashore. We rested for a moment on the sand, but she was eager to turn back into the water and wait for the next wave to ride. That was a perfect ride. When I first started, the surf knocked me off many times. I would float next to her, my fingers entwined in her mane, my legs streaming out behind as Dundee galloped forward dragging me through the water. If I lost hold, I had to struggle though the water to catch Dundee without tangling in her legs. If I missed getting a hold of her it was a good walk back to the stable. Of course, I didn’t tell Mother about that part either.

Together we had become healthy and in love with life. Dundee taught me the language of horses. A subtle non verbal, language of the body. Passing her keen gifts of being able to read every motion I made, of listening to my breath, of knowing my mood and reflecting it back to me. She knew me better than I knew my young self. Dundee made a Horse-woman out of a child.

That third year my legs were healed and incredibly strong, and my heart knew it could never again be whole without the love of a horse.  Others asked me to train their horses to swim like Dundee. While my peers made money from childcare, I provided horse-care, with swimming lessons.

One day, while I was exercising a horse on the beach I came upon a frustrated man trying to get a horse into the ocean. I offered help and was hired on the spot by the new fancy stable that rehabilitated racehorses. Now it was my turn to help horses fully recover the use of their legs.

Thirty-seven years later I still rehabilitate horses, using the gifts that Dundee gave to me. Now, when something in life is knocking me back, I will trade my two legs for a horse’s four and with them under me, gain the strength to go forward.

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The Miraculous Love | A Horse Story