Joe was a good example of what can happen when a person rescues a horse who is on his way to the slaughterhouse.

 

He was a weanling when he went to the slaughterhouse the first time. A kindly horse rescuer must have seen some promise in the loudly coloured youngster and bought him. Later, she sold him to a man who had never owned a horse before. This man asked me to train his horse.

 

When I saw the little colt, I told the man that I was very sorry but I couldn’t start the horse under saddle because he was only about ten months old.

 

The disgruntled man went back to the city and totally ignored his horse from that moment on. The owner of the boarding stable, faced with two months of board owing, had no choice but to ship the Appaloosa to a meat-packing plant to try to recoup some of his money.

 

At the last minute, he remembered me and phoned to ask if I’d be interested in taking the colt off his hands. I said yes. In doing so, I inadvertently introduced a pest onto the farm who would celebrate his new chance at life by becoming the local nuisance. On a couple of occasions, his antics nearly got me evicted from the family farm — horses, dogs, cats, kids, and all.

 

He could not be contained because he could open any gate fastening we had. Once loose, he chased cars, tipped over burning barrels which were still burning, and jumped the fence into my garden to eat anything above ground. Having done that, he rolled in the garden soil, effectively steamrolling it flat and leaving a thick coating of horsehair on everything.

 

There were times when I was glad I’d rescued him from the slaughterhouse because I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Normally, he didn’t bother with our vehicles except for standing the wipers up and licking the windshields until they were cloudy with spit. When we had our car painted however, Joe just had to see what would happen if he lifted his foreleg and set his big, sharp hoof down on the perfect, shiny hood.

 

I was up in the hayloft at the time, throwing down hay bales and had a bird’s-eye view of his latest prank. What happened, of course, was that I had the queen of all hissy fits right up there in the loft, hanging from the ladder, shaking my fist and yelling at him until I was purple in the face. Joe, being Joe, pranced around in a little circle, rolling his hips saucily and waving his little rag of a tail at me.

 

At the same time, he was both friendly and trustworthy. He never bit or kicked a person in his entire lifetime. Children, seniors, and the disabled were safe on his broad back. He knew how to carry blind riders so they didn’t bump their heads. He knew when his young riders were slipping to one side and stopped or carefully carried them back to me so I could straighten them up again.

 

He went with me everywhere and lived at numerous boarding stables with my other horse, Fox. No matter where I put him, he made friends with everyone while letting them all know that he was very protective of his old friend Fox. He would also occasionally leave Fox on his own, open or jump a gate, and go visit the neighbours.

 

Most of all, he loved to get a good rise out of people and knew how to press their buttons. Many of the people who boarded him would phone me up at work to report that Joe had let himself out again. They all tried chasing him back, but that was Joe’s game and he refused to be caught. Most got mad at him and the more finger-shaking and foot-stomping they did, the more Joe liked it. Few realized that if they just turned around and went back to the barn, Joe would follow.

 

When I first published my book, The Dog Who Looked At Heaven, I thought people would be touched most by the story of Quigley, the blind dog who taught me how to be a Seeing Eye Human. But most readers report with a chuckle that they love Joe’s story best because he was so bad. Even on the printed page, the spotted scamp captures people’s hearts.

 

Joe was gently helped to the Rainbow Bridge in March 2007. He was 30 years old and in failing health.

 

So long, Joe. I’ll see you again some day. There is the little matter about my favorite baseball cap that you and I need to talk about….