Grace In A Pasture

Gracie Lou Freebush,
rescue mare extraordinaire.

It's been a long road for Gracie Lou.

We know this for a variety of reasons—not the least of which is that she was dumped at a kill pen after nearly 20 years of faithful service on an Amish farm.

The Amish have a reputation for fashioning simple lives in an impossibly complicated world. And in fairness, there may be merit in that romantic idyllicism.

What's also true, though, is that too many Amish horses are worked until they're no longer useful—and then they're shipped off to slaughter.

Again, in the interest of fairness, kill pens in the U.S. are awash in horses from every background imaginable—from race tracks to family farms to commercial ranches, and more. We live in a society that teaches us it's perfectly fine to throw away things we don't need or want any more—including living creatures.

And while that reality is soul-numbing on multiple levels—in this one, extremely limited case, we're choosing to be grateful—because it brought us Gracie Lou.

Gracie is a majestic 17.1 hh Belgian mare who checks in at about 1,800 lb. By way of introduction, one of the first things she did the day we met was step on my foot. This may be perfectly good form in the hierarchy of the herd—it certainly made an immediate impression on me. 

The bad news: one of my pinky toes is still in recovery. The good news: I'm now a lot more aware of *her* feet and where they're going, hashtag valuable lesson, hashtag no permanent damage.

The moment she arrived here on the farm, Gracie began changing things for the better. Within minutes, it seemed, she established order among her pasture-mates—two impertinent youngsters who are still learning to be horses. In questions of manners, mien, and general mouthiness, they now (mostly) adhere to her unwavering example.

While she's teaching them, Gracie is also teaching us about her past. From day one her demeanor has been gentle and trusting—which suggests she wasn't mistreated up until the day she was discarded.

That said, scars on both sides of her chest bespeak years of pulling a carriage or a plow or a heavy farm wagon. She'll let me massage those spots for a minute or two, but then slowly shies away. Perhaps she's not used to the touch; maybe the pressure on the tissue is uncomfortable; or maybe the memory of being scarred, repeatedly, is the underlying issue.

We may never know, of course, but we're willing to spend the time to find out—or to leave it be, if that's what she tells us she needs.

As I sit here, imagining the journey from a life-long home to a kill pen, I wonder if horses feel betrayal. I don't know. But within the structure of the herd we do know they have long-term relationships, express affection and contentment, and demonstrate fear and loneliness.

We know they have complex social structures and communication, enabling them to bond with their herd and survive among predators.

We also know that as domesticated animals, they are completely reliant on humans for their wellbeing—a responsibility we fail at too easily and too often.

With the help of a devoted rescue network on the mainland, Gracie was pulled from a kill pen in March, 2024, and trailered to a sanctuary in Oklahoma. After 30 days of quarantine she was forwarded to another sanctuary in Arizona, where she spent another month. From there she was trailered to a sanctuary near Los Angeles, and then to LAX, where she boarded a flight for Hawai'i.

As a matter of logistics, that's about 3,700 miles. As a matter of heart, it feels a lot farther. 

With all that subtext in mind, it's now our job to earn a place in Gracie's herd, and to keep the implicit promise broken by her previous humans.

We can never make things right for her. 

But we can make sure that this time the promise is kept.