The Tao of Spartacus Jones

Corazon

I call her "Corazon."
Her actual name, in the record books is "My Cora's Own." I don't know who gave her that name or who Cora was or how this wonderful chestnut mare wound up half-starved, worm-ridden and dead lame on her way to the slaughterhouse.
Probably just as well that I don't know that.

I had bought this property and fixed it up, so I had a horse farm now, but no horses. I decided to find some that needed a good home.
So I went to my first and last horse auction with the wife of an acquaintance of mine.
Christina is her name. She's an equine vet — and would turn out to be my own long-term vet. Among other things, she rescues horses whenever she can. Sometimes former race horses who just weren't fast enough to earn their keep. Sometimes horses too old, lost, broken down or abandoned. She had a network of people with places that could accommodate some of these animals, but not nearly enough. A hundred thousand horses go to slaughter every year.
I didn't know that then.
I wish I didn't know it now.
The few I can save doesn't even begin to make a dent.

When I was a kid, I saw the grainy black and white home movies the Nazis proudly made of their mass murders. Probably showed them to the uncles and aunts and nephews at Christmastime, the way some people do with pics of their week-end in Aruba. I remember the shots of women stripped and cued up, shuffling their way to the "showers." In their eyes, vacant looks of despair. Helplessness. Hopelessness.

That's what this horse auction felt like to me.
That's why I never went to another one.
Now I just tell Dr. Christine, I have room for 2 or 3 or 5 more and she picks them out, trailers them down to my place.
I do it that way because I know myself, know my limitations. If I were to go, I'm pretty sure I might wind up killing somebody.
And I might even enjoy it.
But then, who'd take care of my horses?
Funny.
First time in my life — or at least for a long, long time — that I've had anything to lose. It makes you cautious. Not sure that's a good thing.

She was huddled down against the rail of a holding pen, head hung low, ears slack, ribs sticking out, gaunt hipbones, mane and tail ratty and soiled. One of dozens in similar condition. When I approached the pen, she raised her head, which clearly took some effort, and looked at me. Her deep brown eyes were large and round and soft, even in her wasted condition. I noticed that she had a heart-shaped blaze on her forehead.
I climbed into the pen and went to her.
She leaned against me, nuzzled my hand with her soft nose, like a kiss good-bye.
Then there was some guy at my shoulder, saying something to me about the auction procedure, or something.
I don't know exactly what I said to him. But I think I made it clear that I was taking this mare home with me and I didn't really give a fuck about his auction procedures any more than I gave a fuck about whether he himself were to keep on breathing. Something like that.
Anyway, I brought her home with me.
I figured, if nothing else, I could give her a place to die where there was sunshine and sweet grass.

That was about seven years ago.
For a long time, I didn't think she was going to make it. She had abcesses no one had bothered to treat and every parasite in the hit parade, aside from being so underweight you could play boogie-woogie on her bones like a xylophone. Even Dr. Christina didn't give her much of a chance, and she's saved a lot of beat-up ponies in her day.
But she fooled everybody.
Now, I'll tell you, I was completely green. I didn't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies. But I followed Dr. Chris's instructions to the letter. I treated her abcesses, her rain rot, got her teeth floated so she could chew, de-wormed her, and added every supplement in the known world to her diet.
Gradually — very gradually — she came around.
There were days when I slept in her stall and woke up three or four times during the night to check on her, see if she was still alive. But she started getting stronger. On the day when she staggered out on her own to graze on a little grass — just a little at first — I felt like I'd just stepped down on the surface of the moon.
I thought I knew something about being tough, about never giving up or giving in, about going down swinging. But she taught me I didn't know shit about it.

So I call her "Corazon."
I doubt the people who named her appreciated the pun in Spanish. As I got to know her, I came to realize we shared the same heart. Pride, defiance, whatever you want to call it.
She's not my horse; she's my familiar.

We have something. A connection I can't explain.
Some people describe communication as a "V" shape. The bottom of the V, the narrowest part at the crotch, represents the softest, quietest, most subtle communication. The top, the widest spread, represents the hardest, loudest, most overt. A good horseman, they say, communicates at the bottom of the V.
Corazon and I, we operate below the V.

I know a lot of horses who come to greet me when I come over to their paddock. Among themselves, I'm sure they refer to me as Mr. Apple and Carrots.
But when I go to see Corazon, she's already there, waiting for me.
We go for long rides. Almost always bareback. Don't need a bridle. Often I either loop a lead rope around her neck, or just hold her mane, which is now thick and luxurious. I don't steer her with reins or lead rope. I don't even steer her with leg pressure.
I don't steer her at all.
She reads my mind.
I only think a thought and she responds, unerringly.
And sometimes, I let her drive. We go where she wants to go and how she wants to get there and somehow it always seems to be where I want to go, too.
That may sound spooky or crazy.
But it's not such an impressive trick, really.
It seems quite natural.
When you share the same heart.