Donny and Splash

      Over my living room sofa hangs a painting of two old horses, and every time I pass beneath it, something in me softens.  A dear friend painted it, her brush somehow catching not just their shapes, but their souls.  A palomino Paint and a tiny Miniature stand dozing before a barn that, like them, has surrendered to time.  Donny and Splash.  Two names that still echo in the tender corners of my heart.

 

                                           Painting by K. Jenness

       They are an unlikely pair, stitched together not by logic, but by some quiet intuition I barely remember making.  Yet, once they were side by side, the world seemed to nod in approval.  Donny and Splash.  They loved each other with the uncomplicated devotion that animals offer so freely, and that humans spend a lifetime trying to deserve. 

    Splash was the elder, born with a hind end that never quite obeyed her.  A horse's power lives in the rear, and she had been shortchanged at birth.  Still, she tried.  She carried riders in her youth, pulled a carriage for a time, and then settled into the role she was born for; my golden-spotted companion, my gentle watcher in the covered arena where the footing was soft and the world was kind.

    Donny, by contrast, was a spark wrapped in a tiny palomino body.  Thirty-two inches of purpose.  He had been our Miniature Horse stallion, but, later, as a gelding, he was also a teacher, a cart-puller, a toddler carrier, a visitor of libraries and nursing homes.  Donny was endlessly willing, and endlessly good.  He was a little horse with a heart that seemed to glow from the inside.

    Why did I pair him with Splash?  Perhaps because Donny loved everyone, especially mares.  Perhaps because he was too small to harm her fragile hindquarters.  Perhaps, because Miniature Horse manure is a blessing to anyone with an "apple picker."  But whatever the reason, the result was something far beyond practicality.

    They became each other's beloved partner.

    Their grooming sessions were a kind of choreography.  Splash would stretch her neck to reach Donny's withers while he worked diligently on her upper leg.  They adjusted for their differences without hesitation, as if love had its own mathematics. 

    When I toss hay, I always plan for disagreements over which pile is superior.  However, I soon learned Donny and Splash shared without quarrel.  Splash, despite her size, never claimed dominance.  She simply made room for her dinner mate.

    On stormy Pacific Northwest days, when the rain blew sideways through the open arena, Donny would tuck himself beneath Splash's belly.  She never minded.  Perhaps she even welcomed the warmth of him under her.  I sometimes wondered if his small body steadied her when the wind pressed too hard.  And on hot days, she offered him the favor of shade in the shadow of her broad, golden-spotted frame.

    Time, as it always does, moved forward.  Splash grew older, her hind end weaker.  Donny, too, began to show the gentle wear of years.

    Some days Splash struggled to rise.  She slept more.  During lessons, she would lift her head from the ground as a lesson horse trotted by, but she no longer bothered to stand.  She was too tired.

    Then the afternoon came when she couldn't rise at all.

    I called the veterinarian.  My students and grandchildren gathered.  My son drove miles to be with her.  Donny stood with us, steadfast and solemn, as Splash began her journey across the Rainbow Bridge.

    Afterward, thinking I was doing him a kindness, I moved Donny to a pasture with his Miniature Horse family.  He ignored them.  He stood as close as he could to Splash's covered body, refusing food, refusing comfort.

    I realized my mistake.  I brought him back to the arena, back to her side.  He nibbled a little hay.  He breathed easier.

    Two days later the rendering truck arrived.  Donny watched as Splash's body was removed. Only when she was gone was he willing to rejoin his herd, though he cried for her.  Horses grieve.  Anyone who has lived among them knows this truth.

    More years passed.  Donny remained remarkable: steady, caring, endlessly willing.  But eventually, his time came too.  It was nearly midnight.  The world was quiet.  He was in my arms when he slipped away, leaving pain behind, and I wept for the little horse who had given so much.

    Through my tears, I whispered to him that he wasn't going to be alone.

    Donny and Splash.  Together again.  Now Splash is strong, and Donny is young and somewhere beyond our sight they are running, manes flying, hooves drumming.  They are two golden spirits finally free of the the weight of time. 

     

     

Paper chase

      My relationship with registration papers has evolved considerably over the years.  At this stage of my life.  I no longer feel compelled to chase down documentation for every horse on the farm.  Of the seven equines I currently care for, three could be registered if I were willing to pursue the paperwork.  I am not.  My priorities have shifted.

    This was not always the case.  When my husband and I acquired our first horses, I was genuinely delighted to learn that they came with papers.  Jodee was a registered Quarter Horse and my heart horse, Splash, was initially registered as a Paint.  Later, I even had Splash double-registered as a pinto.  (Paint horses trace their lineage to Quarter Horses or Thoroughbreds, while pinto registration is based on color rather than breed.)  Splash qualified on both counts and I took pride in that.

    The prevailing theory in the equine world is that registered horses possess greater market value.  This is true in a broad, generalized sense, but the reality is more nuanced.  A horse is only worth as much as a buyer is convinced they are worth.  Registration papers can certainly aid in marketing, and they provide verifiable lineage witch is an asset in breeding programs where genetic predictability matters.  Yet papers alone do not confer quality, temperament, or suitability for a particular rider or purpose.

 

One registered, one unregistered  

 

    Draft horse owners especially, tend to be pragmatic.  Geldings, being outside the breeding pool, are often left unregistered.  My own gelding Shire, Mac, eventually received papers - not as a Shire, but as a dressage competitor.  His value lay in his performance, not his pedigree.

    My enthusiasm once extended to the point of obsession.  Even my little PeeCheeYoureSoCute acquired papers - from a mock registry, no less.  At the time, the symbolism of documentation mattered to me.

    When we were marketing Miniature Horses, registration became a practical necessity.  Most of our minis were registered with the American Miniature Horse Registry (AMHR), which operates in conjunction with the American Shetland Pony Club (ASPC).  The AMHR has two sections.  'A' minis are under 34" with the 'B' animals 34" - 38". The American Miniature Horse Association (AMHA), by contrast, accepts only the smaller, 34" and under, animals.  I used both registries where appropriate.  Although the shorter minis often command higher prices, I have always preferred the slightly larger ones: they present a more balanced appearance in harness.

    My memories of AMHR shows remain fond.  The culture was collegian, supportive, and genuinely enjoyable.  When registering foals, the office staff even noticed my naming pattern.  For example I would call a foal Friend Abby or Friend Leonard, always using the word "Friend."  They kindly asked whether I wanted exclusive rights to "Friend."  I declined.  Generosity seemed more fitting than ownership.

    All of our Exmoor Ponies were registered, not for prestige but for preservation.  Exmoors represent one of the most ancient and genetically significant equine types.  Their rarity makes responsible breeding essential to maintaining the global gene pool.  Although we hoped to contribute foals to the breed, nature had other plans.  the best we could do was provide a  home for the four animals, and do promotional work to inform people about the ponies.  Stewardship, even without breeding, is still meaningful.

    With time, my priorities have changed.  I am no longer inclined to rush paperwork through registries or insure that my name appears on every certificate.  Age, experience, and a shift away from breeding and showing have all contributed to this change.  Registration now feels less like a necessity and more like an optional formality. 

    My most recent acquisitions - a registered Kentucky Mountain Pleasure Horse named Summer, and her unregistered companion pony, Rosie - illustrate this shift.  Summer's papers are in my possession, and she could even be double-registered as a palomino since she is a glorious golden girl. (Palomino is another color registry.) Yet, I have not pursued the transfer of papers.  The friend who sold the horses to me shares my indifference toward paperwork, as neither of us felt compelled to complete the process.

    Rosie, by contrast, has no papers except my bill of sale.  Short of genetic testing, her ancestry is unknowable.  Does this make her less valuable?  Perhaps in a market sense, but Both Summer and Rosie are important to me and my business.  Their worth lies in their work, their presence, and their relationship with me - not on a registry database.

    Registration papers do provide a form of proof of ownership, but only in a limited sense.  I currently hold papers for several horses whose certificates do not bear my name.  The documents exist, but they do not fully reflect the lived reality of care, responsibility, and relationship. 

    In the end, my evolving attitude toward registration mirrors a broader truth: the value of a horse cannot be reduced to lineage charts or official seals.  Papers may document ancestry, but they cannot capture personality, partnership, or the quiet daily work of stewardship.  Those qualities, arguably the most important ones, reside outside the margins of any registry.