Arabian Horse Stories

Faith, Hope and a Half-Arabian Named Nako

You won't find the name Ga Nako Zon (Nako x Zons Rosin) anywhere in the annals of Half-Arabian history. He's not a distance riding athlete, and he's been to only one Class A show; in fact, his dam was sired by a plow horse. But to me, he's everything a Half-Arabian should be. I was 14 years old when I first met him, and my life was difficult at best. I'd survived an abusive parent, a rigorous custody battle and an addiction to tranquilizers, among other tortures. My only escape was the barn I walked to after school, because in exchange for my labor, my 4-H advisor let me lease one leftover horse after another. I knew he did it just out of pity, but I didn't care. It was my own sort of therapy. The day my whole life would change was the sunny June morning that I walked into the barn and saw him-a smoky, dappled gray gelding, so thin that every rib showed. Deep shadows hollowed out his neck, his spine and his jutting hips. Wild-eyed and defiant, he circled the stall, head held high on a lather-crested neck. A tattered blue halter dangled off his head.

My advisor was standing in the doorway. "Who's this?" l asked.

"His name is Nako, and you stay away from him," came the gruff reply. "We're just going to fatten him up and sell him."

"He's beautiful!" I said.

"He's crazy," replied my advisor. "The trainer sent him back. He said the horse would end up killing someone."

I moved toward the gray and extended my hand for him to sniff. His ears snapped forward, but he didn't move. Then he took a step, a warbling breath, and another step. His muzzle just grazed my hand before he snorted, whirled around and leaped to the back of the stall.

My advisor left, but I stayed outside Nako's stall and talked to him. It seemed like he was listening to me now and then but, for the most part, he just kept circling.

That evening, I volunteered to turn him out in the two-acre pasture that bordered the road. I'll never forget the moment I slipped the halter off his head. He stood there just a moment, head high, nostrils big, ears swiveling. Then he trotted forward a few strides, stopped, and then burst into a gallop, his smoky mane streaked out behind him. My breath caught in my throat as he thundered to the end of the pasture in what seemed like seconds flat, then wheeled around and galloped back toward me. Just a few feet away, he plunged to a stop, sucking in the air so hard I could see the skin over his ribs move. I was in awe.

Then he noticed the grass beneath his hoofs, and his head dropped like an anchor so he could tear it off in greedy clumps.

In the weeks that followed, I pieced together Nako's history. As a 2-year-old colt he'd been sent to a cowboy of a trainer, who by the end of the month was riding him. But there was no predicting whether Nako would take a step forward, bolt through a fence or go straight up into the air. His owners brought him home where he stood in a stall for five years until they decided to sell him.

Meanwhile, Nako was enduring a torturous adjustment to outside life. Birds! Shadows! Cars! It was all new to him. So were vaccinations, hoof trimming and deworming. I got into the habit of going out to see him every day, and it wasn't long until he stood still as I brushed him, ran my hands over his neglected body and reassured him that his life had changed for the better. I could relate to how he felt, from his hunger to his fear to his defiance, and I loved him all the more for it.

On the lush summer grass, he'd grown into a sleek, shiny athlete who looked for me now every day. No one else could get near him, but he trotted up to the gate when he heard my voice. After a couple weeks of longeing and a cautious introduction to the saddle and bridle, I eased myself onto his back. He gulped a big breath, blew it out, and then waited for instruction. I was thrilled.

Unfortunately, no one else I showed him off to seemed very thrilled. I couldn't convince them that in time he'd be an incredible horse. I, on the other hand, never doubted it. No one believed in either of us? Well, we'd show them; we'd show them all.

That fall, I started pleading with my Dad to loan me the money to buy Nako. There wasn't a lot of money for necessities in our house, let alone for the luxury of a horse. All the while, I spent hours making whispered promises to Nako. One day he'd be mine. One day, we'd win. One day, I'd have my own place, and he'd have the best of everything. For the first time I was thinking about my future, and in it was a 15-hand gray gelding the rest of the world didn't seem to want.

The only time doubt clouded my hopes was when prospective buyers would come. I was so afraid that one day I'd walk to the barn and he'd be gone that I worked up an elaborate scheme of doing discreet things to make him act up. Adjust the halter just so, jingle the chain just right, and my gray gelding became an apprehensive, resentful horse that surely none of those dreaded visitors would want to buy. As soon as they were gone, I'd give him a kind word for playing along with the game, and then I'd try to forget I'd ever seen them.

Winter came, spring slipped by, prospects dwindled, and then one night my Dad came home from work and handed me a set of registration papers. Just like that Ga Nako Zon #2A163294 was officially mine.

I'd like to say that everything was effortless then, but it wasn't. Seven years of neglect had taken their toll on his mind and body, and he had a lot to overcome. I thrilled at every improvement and looked at every setback as a chance for revenge against the injustices we'd had to endure.

During the school year, I did my homework outside his stall just so l could be closer to him. During the summer, I saddled him up in the morning and didn't unsaddle him until dark. If I hadn't worked him so hard, though, he might have turned into a mass of Jell-O because those lean years had given him a frantic appetite and turned him into a very easy keeper.

By our second year, we had mastered western horsemanship, western pleasure, reining and gymkhana. We started riding hunt seat, both on the flat and over fences. I had no money for lessons, so everything was self-taught.

Pretty soon, we were beating Quarter horses in reining and barrel racing, and Thoroughbreds in hunter pleasure. Nako had also become an unflappable parade horse, a nimble trail horse and a solid ponying horse. I even did some cutting with him (cautiously using my advisor's beef cattle when he wasn't home). He was my "everything" horse because he could do it all.

"Nak" is 20 years old now, and those days of endless riding are behind both of us. I joke that he serves in an advisory capacity to our other two horses (both purebreds). My husband and I have our own stable, and true to my word so long ago, I've given Nak every privilege. He has the biggest stall in the barn, complete with a Dutch door so he can see all the activity around the farm.

Even though Nak is a far different horse than he was when I first met him 13 years ago, some things haven't changed. For one thing, feeding times remain the high point of his day. More importantly he's a welcome reminder of what faith and determination can overcome. I didn't realize it then, but the more time I spent with him, the brighter my future seemed. On his broad back, I rode out of depression and into a whole new outlook on life.