Editor's Column by Alyssa Brown Robyn's students were thrilled to have their favorite "dalmatian" pony back.

Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Send mail to The Voice Don't Give up Until the Horse is Dead Robyn DeHaan, owner of Berachah Farms, pointed across the green field to a small white horse with black spots the size of my fist. "See the leopard appy pony?" she said, "That's my dead horse." "Your dead horse?" I said, sure I had misunderstood her. Robyn nodded, grinning broadly, and went on to tell the story. A month before, her pony, Classy, had gotten a cut on her leg. Robyn did her best, but keeping a pony's legs clean, dry and bandaged in spring mud is difficult at best. Classy got an infection. Robyn called the vet, who came out and examined the little horse. He took blood tests, cleaned her wound and gave her a thorough examination. Afterward they stood by his truck talking. "She's just too sick," he said. "There's no chance she'll recover. The infection has poisoned her blood, and she's so dehydrated it shouldn't be possible for her to be alive. You want me to put her to sleep before I go?" "No," Robyn said. "She doesn't seem to be suffering, and I'd rather let nature take its course. She's not dead; she may recover. I don't want to give up on her." The vet shook his head. "If she recovers, it will be a miracle." "Wouldn't be the first I've seen," Robyn said. When she walked out to the barn to check the pony the next day, she was still alive. Robyn washed Classy's leg daily and walked her as much as her strength would allow. Everyday Classy grew stronger. Her eyes regained their mischievous spark. Soon she was well enough to use for riding lessons. Robyn's students were thrilled to have their favorite "dalmatian" pony back. Classy trotted full-speed around the arena, a student bouncing in the saddle, until Robyn wondered how she could ever have missed yelling, "Pull back; make Classy slow down." "She's almost completely herself again," Robyn said, leaning on the fence watching the little mare contentedly chomping grass and swishing away flies with her thick tail. She laughed. "Classy was supposed to die, but nobody told her. The vet was so sure she had died that he sent me a condolence card. I called and asked him if Classy's shots next month will be free. He can't charge me for treating a dead horse, can he?" We shouldn't beat dead horses, but how often do we proclaim our dreams or goals "dead" when a little more loving care and determination would get them back on their feet? Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Top Of Page Send mail to The Voice| Journalism department website © 2004 The Voice. No part of this publication may be reproduced in written or electronic form without prior written consent from the journalism adviser of Multnomah Bible College. All rights reserved.