By Susan Kayne
For Capital Region Independent Media
Dear Readers,
This week’s column is extra special, as we welcome our youngest guest to share her story. While she may be new to the world of journalism (and fairly new to the world itself), she has a remarkable story to tell.
I’m delighted to introduce Baby Dolce, who joined the Unbridled family in late May 2024. This is her literary debut.
At just eight months old, she’s already experienced more than any young horse should – from the depths of despair at a kill pen in Texas to the heights of joy in finding her forever home at Unbridled.
But rather than me telling her story, I’ll let her say it — in her own words. So please join me in welcoming our youngest-ever columnist as she shares her journey from darkness to light, from fear to love, and from the brink of disaster to the sweet life she now enjoys.
With warmest regards,
Susan
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As told by Dolce:
My first memories are of warmth and fear. Mama’s soft belly above me, her legs like protective towers, but her heart beating so fast against my ear when I nursed. I was only three weeks old when everything changed – when the metal gates clanged and strange voices shouted, when unfamiliar hands grabbed at us, when Mama and I found ourselves in a place that smelled of terror and despair.
They called it a feedlot, but even as young as I was, I knew it wasn’t a place for feeding – it was a place where hope went to die. The ground was hard beneath my wobbly legs, and the air thick with the sounds of frightened horses. There was another mare and foal with us, friends we made in our shared fear. We huddled together, us little ones pressing close to our mothers’ legs while they stood guard, eyes wide and nostrils flaring at every sudden movement.
Then came the day that broke my heart – when they took our friends away. I watched them disappear through the gates, the other foal’s tail swishing goodbye as they vanished forever. I didn’t understand then about the “other way” they spoke of, about what “slaughter” meant. I only knew that Mama and I were alone, and her fear became a fierce thing, her teeth bared at any human who came near.
It was around then that my ankle began to hurt. I don’t remember how it happened – maybe in the chaos of being moved, maybe caught in the unforgiving metal pins of the pens. All I knew was that each step became agony, the wound growing angry and hot. Mama would nuzzle me when I cried, but there was nothing she could do to make it better.
The humans noticed. They spoke of “shipping me the other way” too, of taking me from Mama. But then something magical happened – a voice on the phone, a person we couldn’t see, who said words that changed everything: “Baby Dolce is coming home.”
The journey was long and frightening. Strange hands touched me, needles pierced my neck, my leg was washed and wrapped in white bandages that smelled sharp and clean.
Mama and I traveled in a big rumbling thing they called a trailer, first to a place called North Carolina. More hands, more wrapping, more of the sharp-smelling medicines. Mama still wouldn’t let them touch her, but she watched carefully as they tended to me, her eyes softening just a little each time they made my leg feel better.
When we finally arrived at Unbridled in New York, the summer night was warm and full of cricket song. I could smell other horses nearby, but we were kept apart in a barn away from the other horses, something called “quarantine.” Every day, gentle hands would greet me with kind touches to my nose and neck. And then, change my bandages. Even though the medicines sometimes stung, I began to understand that these humans were different from the ones at the feedlot. They spoke softly, moved slowly, and always set out treats for Mama (though it took her many weeks before she would take them).
From my quarantine paddock, I could see another foal – Grace, playing with her mother, Tessie. Oh, how I longed to run and play! But first, my leg had to heal from the wound that once went straight through my ankle. It gaped and hurt and made me limp. Slowly it began to heal and to close. The humans called it a miracle, but I think it was love that healed me – love and medicine and patience.
Three months later, when the doctors said I was ready, I finally met Grace. The moment they opened the gate between us, it was like meeting the sister I never had. We ran (carefully at first, then with more abandon as my leg grew stronger), we played, we shared hay and secrets. Grace taught me how to be brave about new things, and I taught her the best spots in the paddock for afternoon naps.
But the sweetest change has been in my Mama. The mare who once charged at humans with bared teeth now takes carrots from visitors’ hands. Her eyes are soft now, her ears forward instead of pinned back in fear. Sometimes, when the sun is setting and we’re grazing together, I catch her watching the humans with something that looks like trust.
They say my ankle shows no sign of the terrible wound that nearly took my life. But the real healing happened in our hearts. Here at Unbridled, Mama and I found not just safety, but joy. When Grace and I race across the pasture, our manes flying in the wind, I sometimes think about the other foal from the feedlot. I wish she could have known this sweet life, too.
But I promise to live enough for both of us – to run with Grace, to nuzzle the kind humans who saved us, to enjoy every carrot — they’re my favorite! — and to never take for granted this beautiful life we’ve been given. Because that’s what Unbridled gave us: not just a home, but a chance to truly live.
That’s my story – or at least the beginning of it. There are many more chapters to come, full of running and playing and loving. But most importantly, they’ll all be written here, in this place where fear turned to trust, where wounds turned to scars that remind us how far we’ve come, and where two scared horses found their way home.
Susan Kayne is the founder and president of Unbridled Sanctuary, an equine rescue on the border of Albany County and Greenville.
