Horses have always been my favorite animal, for as long as I can remember. I was always captivated by their beauty and gentleness, and have always longed for the day when I have one of my own. That dream grew even stronger when we moved to the country years ago, always passing by horses grazing in fields. Of course, since we didn’t own one, I strived to learn all I could about them. It was better than nothing.
From the farm, we’d drive down the country road heading into town. Every time we would pass a small, white-fenced paddock, and a beautiful chestnut gelding (maybe part Quarter Horse and something else) was there, grazing peacefully by himself. As with nearly any animal we come across, especially horses, we named him—Patriot. (Well, I did specifically.)
He was up in years, I guessed probably around twenty, and he didn’t have the best conformation. But he was a horse. Everything in me longed to have Mom stop the car, so I could jump over the fence, wrap my arms around his neck, kiss his soft muzzle, and smooth back his fetlock (the part of the mane on a horse’s forehead). But on that road, it wasn’t the best place to stop, and so we didn’t.
It became a routine. We go to town usually once a week, and every single time, we’d drive by Patriot. I always rolled down the window, called out “Hello, Patriot!” and let out a loud whistle. Mom or Dad would slow down if I begged them to, and Patriot learned to stop grazing and watch us, ears flicking back and forth as I whistled. Even my siblings would call out. He was our faraway friend, a real, live horse just within our reach.
Seasons passed—spring, summer, fall, and winter—and Patriot got to know us pretty well. He would swish his tail and stare at me with those big chocolate eyes. I do think he came to recognize our silver van that slowed, windows down, and kids calling and whistling every week.
But, all that time, we’d never seen anyone with him. His paddock was right at the road, and behind that, probably a hundred yards away, was the house. Beyond that was another paddock with a white stallion, which I saw someone riding once.
But Patriot was all alone. Sometimes his water trough was turned over, and I was always amazed that the small paddock was able to sustain him—there wasn’t much grass at all. (Of course, I didn’t want to blame the owners or anything; who knew what their situation was, but it did seem sad, as though he’d been forgotten.)
Then the winter of 2021 came. And with it a pretty heavy snow. Not too cold, but cold enough that I thought about Patriot, all alone, with no shelter to protect him from the freezing weather or keep his old bones warm. Older horses can have a hard time growing thick fur, and I knew Patriot didn’t have a good coat. When we drove by a few days later, with snow still on the ground, Patriot stood there, trying to graze the bit of grass beneath the snow. He looked thin and, as far as I could tell, they hadn’t given him any hay. Still no shelter either, to protect him from the harsh weather.
Less than a month later, in February, we had a another week of frigid cold. This time, it was couple inches of ice, five inches of snow, and another thin layer of ice on top of that. Which made for ground packed and hard as concrete. It even got to -9F and kept staying below freezing. I thought of poor Patriot the entire time. Frozen to the bone, absolutely nothing to eat, and no way to get out.
Not long later, when we were able to get to town again, I saw Patriot. This time the weather seemed to wear on him. He seemed really bony and tired.
But by springtime, he was better. Some of the grass in his paddock grew, and he was back to the way we’d always known him. He was very resilient; although he was up in years, he sprang back from every terrible condition he went through. Snow, rain, heat, cold. Once, he even had rain rot, a skin disease condition for horses that is caused by a bacterium and makes their fur fall out, but it healed, and he was okay.
We all started wondering how long Patriot had been living isolated in that paddock. Had he always been alone? We even guessed that perhaps someone boarded Patriot there, and the people who owned the place had no part in his care…or something.
Well, then we decided to do a little snooping and went on Google Earth to see the same paddock, back in time. As far as we could tell, it showed a brownish horse in that little white paddock in 2015 all by himself. Which meant he’d been there a long time. Before that, it showed him in 2013 with maybe sheep or something, and in 2011 there was a brown horse with three other horses. That was so sad. If that was him all of those times, he’d been there at least ten years, and his pals had left, leaving him alone.
But what could we do about it? We didn’t want to interfere with something that was really none of our business. Even though I would’ve bought him in a heartbeat, if only to give him a home where he could live his last days comfortably.
And so, the seasons continued, as they always do, and Patriot continued the way he always had.
Easter 2023, we drove by, heading to our grandmother’s, and saw Patriot in the corral, this time shut up in a small metal pen, no more than ten feet wide. He had a small bucket of water that had tipped over. No hay to speak of.
I admit I was angry. We all wondered why that sweet horse was locked up in a small pen, inside his corral. With nothing to eat, and still no shelter. If he was sick, there were no other animals with him to catch it. He looked so forlorn, almost begging us to do something. Why was he trapped in there?
The following days, which passed into a few weeks, Patriot stayed in that little metal pen. In my head, I screamed, What are they doing to him? He grew even thinner, and I knew he was weak. Why couldn’t whoever put him there, just let him out? At least in the paddock he could try to eat what grass there was.
But it was too late. Three weeks after easter, Mom and I drove by, and he was…gone.
It broke my heart, and sadness clouded everything. That poor, sweet horse, left to die alone. No one cared for him. But at least there was some consolation, I told myself; he was no longer suffering.
Since then, I made a promise that one day I will own a gentle chestnut gelding and name him Patriot. That way that beautiful horse’s memory will live on forever. He won’t be forgotten.
I never truly knew what circumstances Patriot’s owners were facing; there may have been hardships or reasons I had no idea of from the road. I’m not trying to judge them, but only share how seeing him each week made a quiet impact on me.
Now, each time we drive down the same road and pass the empty paddock, a stark reminder of the courageous horse that lived there, I can’t help but think of him. When I feel sorrowful of his fate, I go out to our pasture, wrap my arms around our donkey’s neck, kiss her soft muzzle, and smooth back her fetlock (well, it’s not really a fetlock, but close.)
But I will never forget “my” horse.
And I will have a Patriot in memory of the horse I loved…one day.
I promise.
Photos of Patriot:
