Remembering Dino
Twenty-four years ago today, an ancient pony limped slowly off the trailer that had pulled in front of the borrowed piece of property where Catskill Animal Sanctuary got its start. His name was Dino. He was our first rescue.
Some weeks earlier, a teenager had walked into Brooklyn’s Bergen Beach Stables where Dino lived and set a bale of hay on fire. A few minutes later, the barn was an inferno. Twenty-one horses were burned alive in that blaze, but somehow, somehow, only tiny Dino, who weighed just 300 pounds, survived. We welcomed the little man with open arms and plenty of tears… but then the real work began. Dino’s spirit was shattered.
As someone who grew up with horses, I’d never experienced what I witnessed in Dino. He refused to engage in any way, choosing instead to stand in a corner of his pasture, head hung low, avoiding eye contact, eating listlessly. After his initial quarantine period, we introduced him to several other ponies who lived on the property–but he acted with them as he acted with humans. Any living being who tried to interact might as well have been a stone. I believe – no, I’m certain – that Dino was overwhelmed by grief.
Weeks passed. We welcomed more animals: Sammy, a young steer locked in a crate with urine scald covering much of his body. Tim and Jim, massive draft horses rescued from slaughter. Seventeen animals locked in a tiny stall on the dilapidated property of a notorious local animal hoarder. Dino remained in his corner, disinterested in the new arrivals.
But then one morning, everything changed as I walked an old blind horse past the pasture of the old broken pony. Uveitis, colloquially known as moon blindness, had taken the sight of a twenty-something horse named Buddy, and whether it was due to lack of skill, patience, or time, his humans weren’t prepared to care for a horse who bumped into fences and shredded his face and neck on barbed wire. When Buddy arrived, he was terrified.
As a way of earning his trust and building his confidence, I took Buddy on daily walks. We’d walked past Dino’s pasture many times without a response. We’d stood at the fenceline many times, encouraging Dino to visit. Again: nothing.
But on this particular morning, as if Buddy had arrived in that instant, I heard a raspy little whinny, and here came Dino, trotting to the fence on his arthritic legs to greet us. I guided Buddy to the fence and stepped aside as they stood, nose to nose, breathing each other in: a little pony who’d lost every friend he’d ever had and a blind horse who certainly needed one.
As Buddy helped Dino recover from unspeakable trauma, Dino once again welcomed human companionship, and the little old man with the bum leg and scar tissue in his throat from the fire and a mane like Tina Turner’s made a small army of friends, many of whom attended the memorial we had for him and shared how he’d touched their lives.
Buddy passed away in 2007, leaving a fully recovered friend behind, who soon selected “Big Ted,” a massive draft horse, as his new best friend. Just as Buddy had done, Ted reached through the massive window to keep Dino company. When we led them to their pasture each morning, we giggled as Dino trotted to keep up with Ted… and, devoted friend that he was, Ted stopped every so often to let his pal catch up.
When Dino passed away, our community was bereft. Cards and letters filled our mailbox for weeks. People brought bags of carrots, flowers, bales of hay, and bags of treats. The most special gift, a beautiful hand-painted sign that read, “Dino’s Bliss Happened Here,” still hangs on his stall door.
Over the years that Dino lived with us, the mighty little pony taught us a thing or two: about courage, about resilience, and about how recovery from trauma truly is possible… particularly with a little help from your friends.
Thanks for the lessons, Dino. And thanks for the memories.
