Spectrum

Do you remember the story of Black Beauty?

I’ll never forget the tears streaming down my face when he was separated from his friend Ginger, nor the horrible images of his brutal existence as a taxi horse in Victorian England.

There seems to be something about horses and ponies that always inspires humans to want to bond with them. I guess that’s because since domestication they have served us, be it in battle, for sports and entertainment, or for companionship and pleasure.

Like many ‘first world’ young girls, I imagined having a special relationship with my very own pony, a relationship that would grow from trust and reciprocity, where the pony gained as much from the relationship as I did.

But does that ever really happen?

Like any issue in existence, there is a long curved and spikey line that is the spectrum which holds diverse opinions and perspectives… especially when it comes to animal welfare. With horses you could perhaps say the far left opinion holds that horses should roam free in mobs of stallions and mares, yearlings and foals. To be completely wild. The far right might be the slaughter of horses for human consumption. Along the spectrum you’d find as many opinions about what constitutes horse welfare as there are horse sport enthusiasts, rodeo riders, pony clubbers, rescue sanctuaries and ‘third world’ working horsemen.

I think I’ve had a fair amount of experience to develop an educated opinion on horse welfare. But, over the years, I’ve learnt too that experience and education don’t always mean enlightenment, and that there is never any such thing as black and white.

I rode horses daily for a large proportion of my life. I owned one to 12 horses at a time for over 30 years. I worked in many different horse industries and rode hundreds of horses.

My parents gave me a pony when I was 11, and at 15 I got a job at a trail-riding place where the owner was a dealer and bought horses each week from Toowoomba Saleyards and sold them on after giving them a full make-over and sorting out their ‘behavioural issues’. Over the years my work included being an offsider for six years for one of the best ‘breakers’ around, a season as a ringer in the Kimberleys for a contract musterer, years as a racehorse strapper and track-work rider, a few times preparing yearlings for thoroughbred sales, a year and a half as a rider and groom in a tourist show with Dancing Stallions and Australian Outback performances, and years working part-time as a hacking, polo and polocrosse groom. When my kids started riding I taught Pony Clubbers and neighbourhood kids to ride.

Later, after six years as a mature-age student, I became a veterinarian and worked for 11 years for a 100% equine practice.

When I became a vet I started out with an idealism befitting a young horsey girl. I just wanted to care for horses. My clients included pony club parents, racehorse trainers, wealthy middle-aged dressage riders, western-pleasure riders and calf-roping barrel-racing rodeo riders, trotting trainers, clydesdale enthusiasts… the list is endless.

I even worked for years as an official race-day vet at a regional race track, monitoring the horses for lameness or other concerns as they were brought into the barriers, tending to any issues after the race, swabbing them for drug testing.

But in a way time wore me down and in my heart I shifted steadily left on the horse welfare spectrum. After years of injecting cortisone into the joints of thoroughbreds with degenerative joint disease so they could race the following week, after attending to horses with sore backs trying to diplomatically explain to their grossly overweight riders that their own size might just have something to do with their horse’s pain and ‘misbehaviour’, after euthanising horses with fractured legs after they jumped over a ridiculously high show-jump or raced just too young… again the list is endless.

I was not caring for horses. I was tending to horses damaged by the very people who loved them yet used them for their own pleasure. Every horse I attended to was owned by someone privileged enough to be able to afford a horse for the express purpose of getting the horse to perform for their pleasure, be that recreational, companionship, sporting or business. I felt conflicted by the contentious aspects of domestication.

In 2014 after spending a few days riding a beautiful black stallion in the desert along the Red Sea, I visited an amazing grassroots charity that rescues and cares for the working horses of Giza in Cairo. The Egyptian version of black beauties. Only they were more often bay and wretched. I was hoping, because my family had grown up and I had gone through a divorce, that I was coming into a better position to use my skills and love of horses to help those in serious need.

Unfortunately life took a drastic turn and I came home suddenly from that visit when I got the news that Harley died. A week later I had to return to work, which I was in no mental or physical state to do. I could hardly walk on very shaky legs, let alone stop my endless crying as I drove the kilometres between stable visits. A few days later I was kneeling down to insert a euthanising injection into the vein of a shetland pony owned by racehorse trainers, when I turned and looked up at the owner and asked for the pony’s name. I wanted to bade him farewell. The owner said the pony’s name was “Harley”. I broke down.

The day after that my doctor refused to allow me to continue working. To be an equine vet one must be extremely responsible. Lives are at stake. The job is physically, intellectually and emotionally challenging, dangerous and stressful. That turned out to be the last time I worked as a vet. It was a sudden and unexpected departure from my life with horses.

Now, living on Gili Meno, I’m surrounded by small horses that pull carts loaded with building materials, market supplies, locals coming back from shopping trips, and some tourists. Ponies are the only means of transport for moving anything heavier than one can carry on a bicycle, because there are no motorised vehicles on the island. Many local families rely on the income from their horse and cart to be able to feed their families.

I haven’t worked as a vet here, but I’ve lent a hand a couple of times at charity vet clinics held on the islands.

  

And so I guess it’s because of my vast and diverse experience that I feel I have some grounds on which to speak when the topic of horse welfare comes up. I also feel I have a down-to-earth and realistic attitude to the multifactorial issues of animal care faced in a developing country like Indonesia.

Conditioning and culture place heavy black-out curtains over our eyes and people will always fall on different places on that long line of the spectrum of animal welfare. I do empathise with this as it took me some time to move from where I began on that line myself.

Some visitors to the island protest in disgust that the ponies are so small, and get so hot and exhausted, pulling their loaded carts in this tropical climate. Some boycott the islands because of it, whilst being completely oblivious to the horrors that occur in their own countries.

Other visitors here climb gleefully into a carriage, sometimes three at a time with two bulging suitcases each, weighing more than twice the weight of the pony itself, showing not one iota of concern for the little horse.

When visitors to the island say to me that as a horse vet it must be hard for me to see the way horses are treated here, I often defend the situation. It sickens me more when I see overweight tourists getting into a cart with their ginormous suitcases than it does when I see a local man loading his cart with concrete bricks.

In fact, compared to the other islands and other areas of Indonesia, not to mention Cairo, the Gili Meno ponies are almost all in good condition. Some are even fat. They work hard at times, but they have a lot of breaks. It’s a very quiet island. Most owners have more than one pony, and they rotate them. The ponies are hardy and strong, used to heat and humidity. I’ve hardly ever seen a pony with wounds. Sometimes, the horse stalls are more luxurious than the owner’s home. Because it is a dry sandy-soil island, for much of the year the owners have to pay for expensive bags of grass and feed brought over from the mainland.

The local daily wage here is less than a tourist spends on one cocktail.

I remind visitors that horses are treated in very poor ways in western countries also.

I ask them if it is any better to put a beautiful thoroughbred yearling into a stable and fill him with processed foods and supplements ready to be led into a sale ring, when he should be frolicking about in a field with other youngsters? I ask them if it is any better to put a strong, fit thoroughbred into a stable 3m x 3m and keep him locked in there for 23 hours a day, day after day? I ask them if it’s ok to put novice riders on horses at trail riding centres and let them ride around balancing their body weight on the reins, dragging and pulling on the horse’s mouth? I ask them if it’s ok to kick a horse around a barrel or flag race digging spurs into his belly? Or training them to “pace” with their legs in a completely unnatural gait, damaging their backs at the same time as they whip them around a racetrack with a sulky-cart behind them, all for the glory of a few hundred dollars prize money and so that ordinary folk can place a bet and maybe win a bob or two? The list is endless.

Everything in perspective.

I have seen a lot. I do not often cry at the sight of any suffering here. I am hardened to it, and I believe it is just as pitiful to harm a horse ignorantly or otherwise in the name of fun, or sport, or recreation, as it is in the ignorant and uneducated pursuit of an income when living in poverty. I can turn a blind eye to quite a bit.

But last weekend, Made and I were sitting on the berugak at his family home on the ‘mainland’ of Lombok, after we’d attended a ceremony at his family temple. His uncle was clearing a part of the garden in preparation for a small building project.

I heard the clip-clop of horse’s feet and looked up to see a tiny skinny Indonesian pony turn into the driveway, dragging a small cart so heavy he could barely pull it forward. His legs were almost horizontal with the effort and strain of hauling it through the gateway.

One front hoof was deformed and turned in so much he was walking on the outside of the hoof wall. One back hoof was clubbed, so that he walked upright on his toe, the other one was the opposite, with the hoof neglected and overgrown so that he looked like he was wearing a curved clown-shoe.

He was heaving. His ears drooped down the side of his face, a sure sign of pain or injury or extreme sadness.

I gasped and could not control my distress. I felt like I’d been punched in the guts. I’ve seen woeful looking ponies on Lombok before. There they don’t have the luxury of a lucrative tourist trade to give them business like in the Gili islands.

As the pony came past we could see the cart was full of concrete bricks. I had to turn away as the tears ran down my face and my breath faltered.

I was in an awkward position. As a guest in the family home, a visitor to their country, it was not my place to rant and rave.

Made went over immediately and draped his body over the carriage to bring the front down and stop the girth from squeezing the pony’s belly in half.

While the driver slowly unloaded the bricks I pulled myself together. Then burst into tears again. Then pulled myself together. My emotional response to this pony’s suffering took me by surprise.

Made came back over as the cart became lighter. I implored him to do something.

“What can we do?” he said, his face drawn and clearly in as much distress as me. “He must work the horse so he can feed his family.”

But this pony was not fit to work. He would not last long in this state, and then the owner would be without work anyway.

The pony let out his penis and hung it low, as horses often do when resting, and the family around us giggled. I felt disgusted by their laughter. But they did not understand. Uncle Wayan walked over to me laughing and looking at the pony. They just didn’t know, they did not realise his feet were appalling, did not recognise his dejected demeanour. They are used to seeing skinny animals, and their culture believes a horse is simply a tool or machine.

I looked at Uncle Wayan with a sad face, tears falling, and did not return his laugh.

Taking an even breath I said, “Kuda ini sakit sekali”.

This pony is very sick and in pain.

I let them all digest it, while a million thoughts were going through my mind. Who was I to judge? I’d just spent more for one night in a local hotel with a swimming pool, just down the street, than this man may earn in a week. If I gave him money for his pony would he spend it on himself or his family, and keep working the pony anyway? I did not want to upset anyone, the Indonesian way is not to make a fuss, and definitely not to offend. They hate conflict and will go to great lengths to avoid it. My thoughts continued, in endless circles. No matter how hard I tried, I could not banish from my mind the image of Black Beauty.

When the man had finished unloading the cart he urged the pony into a walk and as he came past us I asked Made to look at his feet. To explain to him how bad the situation was.

Made, bless him forever and a day, asked the man to stop.

We entered into a half hour discussion.

The man was older than me, strong as an ox, wirey like a greyhound, his face wrinkled and weathered with the evidence of a hard life. His pony was over 20 years old, a remarkable age for a working horse in this area, and he had owned him for that long. The man told me he needed to go to the vet to get “an injection” to give the pony energy. Ironically, whilst locals believe firmly in traditional medicine, they also absolutely love ‘single-injection cure-alls’ given by doctors and vets.

He told us his elderly mother had suffered a stroke recently and even though he knew his pony didn’t have the energy to work, he had no choice, he had to pay her medical bills.

He did not understand the appalling state of his horse’s feet. But the man had kind eyes, a doleful expression, and I was completely surprised at his willingness to engage in discussion with us.

He allowed me to look the pony over. When I lifted the harness I saw a deep and raw open wound on top of his wither. His lips were cut from the bridle being too tight. The heavy metal brow-band was pressing into his forehead. He had wounds on his legs and under his tail. His ear was weighed down by chronic swelling and scarring. He was so skinny each of his vertebrae stuck out prominantly. He hung his head in defeat and from weakness, and yet he continued to obey his owner.

I asked how much it would cost to buy a new horse? The answer was an exorbitant figure. For a cheaper amount he could trade this one in, but that worried me as I envisaged the only outcome to this pony was slaughter.

Did he have any spare land to rest this one? A little, but he needed to keep working.

I explained the severity of his pony’s ailments, even whilst knowing how sturdy and resilient these local ponies are. I tried to show him how to tend to some of the wounds. We discussed simple, natural first aid options. I tried to convince him that a relatively expensive single injection from the vet was not the best way to go in this case. That what his pony needed most was rest, food and time to recover.

As we continued the discussion I came to believe that the man actually did care for his pony. That he truly didn’t want to work him. But what was he to do? Through his culture, his lack of education and his poverty this man sits on the right of the animal welfare spectrum, but I could see a deep sadness in his eyes.

I asked Made if he felt the same way and he agreed. After an emotional but rational discussion, we decided to give the man a sum of cash that would sustain him and his family for a while, plus allow him to purchase feed and a bit of medicine for his pony.

On the one proviso – that he rested him.

I explained that one week would not be enough, and also that ideally the pony needed to be retired. But we told him we would come and check on him in a week. That if he gave the pony a week’s holiday, and tended to his wounds, and fed him up well, we would then give him more money to help for longer.

The man gratefully accepted the cash and left. I pray we have done the right thing. I pray the pony is now resting his weary bones and eating well, even if only for a week. I pray that we can then go on to help him for another week, and another. I’ve never heard of a rescue group in Lombok and we can not take the pony to our place on Gili Meno; but in time, if this man proves to be able to genuinely care for his pony, perhaps we will buy him a new one and retire this one somewhere, somehow. His pony has worked hard for too many years and deserves that much.

*** I write this story not seeking applause. I write it in the hope of sharing and generating compassion for animals, and a hope that people will develop empathy to the predicaments faced in different cultures and from different viewpoints.

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A late addition to this story:
Yesterday Made went to Lombok and called by the house of the pony’s owner. The cart was in the yard, but there was nobody home. The pony and the man were not there. So we hope he was taking him for a pick somewhere on some nice grass… we will try to visit again soon.

NB unfortunately I didn’t get a photo of the pony. But if anyone is interested, let me know, and I’ll try to get one next time.

PONY UPDATE!

Last week I shared a new blog I wrote about a chance encounter we had with a poor little pony in Lombok. I wanted to share the complexities of the challenges faced by working horses and their owners in developing countries.

For those of you that are interested, here’s an update. Yesterday Made and I travelled to Lombok and paid a surprise visit to the owner of the little horse. I am sooo very pleased and relieved to tell you that when we arrived the pony was resting in his tiny stall, his head in a feed-bin filled with freshly cut grass.

In one week he has put on a bit of weight!

He looked up at us and had a brightness in his eyes that was not there the week before.

The owner, who I now know is called Pak Mudahar (Mr Mudahar) had paid for two “energy” injections from a “vet” that visits the area twice a week. He had also been cleaning the deep wound on the withers with betadine, and applying a paste of turmeric and salt. Unfortunately the wound is itchy and the pony has been rubbing it against objects in his stall, causing a large fluid filled swelling.

The owner also got a local hoof man (I have trouble stretching the term to farrier or blacksmith) to trim his deformed feet. They have a long way to go, but it’s a start.

We had a long chat with Pak Mudahar and discovered it’s actually his wife that had the stroke. She also has painful kidney stones, and has been too afraid to get the surgery she needs. Their only son lives in Kalimantan and has been trying to get his mother to have the surgery, but she is too afraid to travel.

Medical treatment in Indonesia is free for poor people. But they must be registered on the government’s social system to access it. Unfortunately for uneducated and poor people, it can be too difficult or scary for them to apply for and fill in the documentation needed to register.

Yesterday I contacted Endri, from Lombok’s Forgotten Children and Endris Foundation, to visit Pak Mudahar and his wife, to help them understand there is free medical assistance available, and to help them understand the importance of surgery. Endri and his team can hold their hands through all the scary formal paperwork, and help them understand the way the medical system can help them. To ease their fears.

Pak Mudahar also missed out last week on receiving the bag of rice handed out by the government to poor people. So we are pleased our money helped to feed not only the pony, but of course the man and his wife as well. You can see from the photos that these people live simply.

Back to the Little Old Man pony, we also were able to find a bit of land nearby that has a small area of grass. Pak Mudahar can take the pony to the land to pick on the grass. He can’t leave him tethered there though, because even in his poor condition he would most likely be stolen. Pak Mudahar can also go to that grass field and cut grass to take back to his pony, for free.

SO! Made and I discussed ways to improve the pony’s stall, do some more repairs on the cart and harness, and we gave him more money to help him for another week, again on the condition that the pony keeps resting.

We have some wonderful news!!

Tori from Gili Trawangan, who runs the Horses Of Gili charity, part of the Gili Eco Trust, has told us that she may be able to find a place for this little pony to retire on. This is soooooo amazing. To think this poor little old man may never have to work again, and could retire peacefully. To be taken care of in his old age.

Tori is going to start a fundraising effort to help raise money so that we can buy the pony, thus giving Pak Mudahar enough money to buy a new, young horse to continue working.

Made has sternly told him that if he gets a new horse, he must never work him hard, never fill the cart with concrete bricks again. And we have promised if he can do that, and take good care of a new horse, we will continue to guide and help him.

I did not write this blog story looking for financial help. But a few of my friends offered, which blew me away! If you would like to help, stay tuned and I will let you know about Tori’s campaign, or perhaps you can send direct to me and I can pass it on to her.

Thank you everyone for reading all of this. Tori and I have decided to call the pony Chance. We hope to give him the chance to retire, and look at this story as a chance for positive change. Who knows how the ripples may continue to move outwards from this little pond.

UPDATE 2:

Today was another day of good news!

We travelled back to Lombok to visit Pak Mudahar and his little pony who’s now called “Chance”.

Like last week, Chance was in his stall munching on freshly cut green grass.

The wound on his wither has improved heaps! And he has put on a little bit more weight.

Three times now Made and I have given them money, so that Pak Mudahar didn’t have to put Chance to work, and so they could take care of him and themselves.

Last week when we visited we gave him 400,000 rupiah (approx $40AUD). This is equivalent to about 1/3 of a monthly salary.

It sounds a lot for them, given they live simply, but Pak Mudahar explained to us that the large can of antiseptic insect repellant wound treatment he bought cost 160,000 rupiah. A huge amount of money here, but it’s done wonders for helping Chance’s deep wound!

He also bought some special medicinal herbal oil for about 50,000 rupiah. He puts this on the wound also, and in Chance’s feed.

The rest of the money is being used to buy rice bran for Chance, and food and medicine for himself and his wife.

During our visit, the torrential wet season rain came down and we sat in their home as their corrugated iron roof leaked drops of water all over us.

We learnt a bit more about their lives. Pak Mudahar has been a cidomo (horse cart) driver since he was a child. It’s all he has ever done. His father and grandfather also were cidomo drivers.

Pak Mudahar was married twice before he met his wife Ibu Muslima, but both his wives had died. Ibu Muslima felt sorry for him and the hard times he’d gone through, and they married. She says he’s been a very good husband to her for 30 years now.

In his village he is the only cidomo driver. The only horseman. For many years now, anytime someone in the village becomes ill and needs emergency transport to hospital, Pak Mudahar is called, no matter the time of day or night. Sometimes he’d gets paid, sometimes not.

Pak Mudahar told us an interesting story.

A couple of years ago Chance got colic (pain in his belly which is often life-threatening in horses). For two days he couldn’t do a poo. His belly blew up like a balloon, and he pawed the ground and wanted to lie down with the pain of the distension.

Pak Mudahar had seen this before with another man’s horse in the next village. So he bought some soap and lathered up Chance’s whole body, then he lathered up his arm and slowly pulled out two large stones from Chance’s rectum. Each stone bigger than his fist. Given Chance is only tiny, maybe 11 hands, they would have been causing the blockage.

The stones were smooth and clean, coloured black and yellow. To Pak Mudahar they looked like crystals, or special gem stones.

When he removed the stones Chance passed a stack of manure and straight away felt better and started eating.

Two days later four strange men turned up, completely unannounced, at his house.
Made translated it to me as “supernatural” men. The supernatural men knew Pak Mudahar had come upon these special magical stones, the spirits had informed them. They paid 400,000 rupiah for both.

As a vet, I know these stones are called entoroliths and occur much like kidney stones but instead grow in the intestinal tract. They are a composite of minerals formed over time within the body. They don’t always cause a problem but if they block the passageway or get too big will need removal, often surgically (in the western world).

I don’t think Pak Mudahar knows any of that.

To listen to him tell the story and see the wonder in his eyes both at the magic of it all, and at how pleased he was that his little pony stopped being sick, was a precious moment for me.

One thing that wasn’t great was the state of the floor of Chance’s stall. Last week we asked Pak Mudahar to improve it after we saw Chance standing in mud and manure. So he put some old concrete bricks and large stones on the ground. Perhaps he doesn’t understand that although Chance’s feet are now out of the mud, it is very uneven and must be uncomfortable for him. Today we gave Pak Mudahar extra money to buy cement and sand and make a proper floor. It may only be another week before we can retire Chance, but a new pony will take his place and we want to ensure the best conditions and ongoing care for that pony 🙂.

Thank you to the amazing people who have dug deep and donated money to the gofundme that was set up for Chance by Horses of Gili. $1000 was raised!!! I am blown away that friends and strangers from other countries can help out like this. We are excited and looking forward to retiring Chance and giving Pak Mudahar a younger stronger pony.

Stay tuned…!