Tuesday
Yesterday my young neighbor, Eric, a teen of perhaps 16, stopped by to ask me how he could fatten this young horse he had brought home. The horse had been starving when he was able to talk the woman into letting him bring it home. It is a small paint of mostly deep brown. Eric had been told the little colt was a year old, but I pointed out his gangly legs and said I felt pretty confident he was not more than eight or nine months old.
I then motioned to Elliot and explained that he would be two in April and that he was more what a two year old colt should look like.
Eric's heart is in the right place though.
So, as I sit here, with dawn slow to rise, I think about all the horses, the dogs, the animals here in Mississippi who are struggling to survive at the hands of their owners. Take Cho's fight for life, and now Eric's horse, whom he has named Popeye.
Nights must be long for these animals, the darkness and cold of the midnight hour lingering for what must be endless. Hunger a constant companion, so much so that they must think it is a normal state of being.
It makes the days difficult for those of us who must stumble through this journey helpless to save them all.
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