Camelot Auction

  

       I called Camelot Auction first thing Friday morning and talked with a personable woman named Kim. 
        "I'm interested in #613."
         "Let's see, 613--oh, still available.  He's as cute as a button."
        (Uh-oh, I said to myself, this was a boy!  I had mostly mares.  Herds are matriarchal and mares will accept a filly far more easily than a gelding. A weak underweight little guy would not do well with my girls.)    "'He?'"  Are you sure he's a he?  The listing said--"
         I heard a gruff male voice with a southwestern accent in the background,  "I'll take another look."
        "We'll get back to you," the woman said and clicked off.
         I re-scanned the list of available horses while I waited.   Maybe one of these emaciated bay two year-olds, or this black mare covered in mud and rain rot.   God, this was a heart-crushing process.  Saying yes to one meant saying no to others.  The phone rang.   A "New York minute" apparently had nothing on a New Jersey minute.  
          "Hi,  can't believe this but 613 is a filly, "Kim said.  "No idea how we got that wrong. You want her?"
          I didn't know what was acceptable auction house protocol.   Thousands of horses are funneled through them each year.  And yet if I didn't ask at least a few questions--   "Does she seem healthy, I mean sound?  Do you know anything about her?"
          "She came in with a bunch from Tennessee.  They weren't cared for--starved.  Should be okay.  Probably not even two yet.  Look like Quarter horses--unregistered, of course.
          "Know anything about the owner?
          "Nope.  Didn't know they were even coming 'til they showed up at the gate.   Someone probably just wanted to get rid of them.  Got a shipper  to clear out a field.  Who knows?"
           My temporal muscles started to tighten--that migraine was coming back.  "Okay,  613 it is."     
          Leap of faith taken in four short words.   I pulled out my credit card.
          

         My next task was to get little Miss #613 trucked up here as soon as possible.  I had a four -horse trailer pulled by a four-passenger Sierra dually.  It was huge rig to drive around New York City and across the George Washington Bridge.  In fact, it was a huge rig to drive anywhere.  And something else:  If I walked by a kill pen and there were horses heading to slaughter I was afraid I would loose impulse-control: I'd grab three more.  I was in a bit of a fix:  First, the reputable haulers that I knew would not run the risk of transporting a possibly diseased horse from an auction house.  I spoke with some listed on the Camelot site but no one seemed to be coming this way with a full load.   Trucking only one horse from New Jersey to Acton (a half hour northwest of Boston) would cost nearly $700.
         I called Kim back.  The more I talked with this woman the more she struck me as the Oscar Schindler of Camelot Horse Auction.  She had two horses of her own and greatly admired natural horsemanship trainers Pat and Linda Parelli.  No real horse person would consider stepping into an auction house unless it was to save an animal.  I have a friend who went to one in Virginia and ran out vomiting.  Yet Kim was in the thick of it, working as hard as she could to keep as many horses as she could off the meat trucks.  And she networked tirelessly to help people such as myself get their animals home without breaking the bank.  This without remuneration.
         I wanted to know more about her.  "Kim, most people would find the kind of work you do highly stressful.  I mean no matter how hard you work a number of horses must go to slaughter."
        She didn't answer but kept at the task at hand.  Oh God, I'd been too intrusive.
      "Ah, here.   A lady from  Connecticut is coming to pick up  a Haflinger mare.  I'll call and give her your number, and then she can call you if she wants.  Keep me posted.  And, Ainslie, about my work--?"
       "Yes?" 
       " I thrive on pressure."

       


        Within ten minutes Deborah Blaschke--who turned out to be an assistant at an equine veterinary clinic--called me 
       "My husband and I are picking up our horse first thing tomorrow.  We'd be happy to help you out with your filly."
       "Wonderful.  Thanks so much.  I'll drive down to your place in Connecticut that
afternoon."
       "Does she have a name yet?"asked Debbie.
         An If I Were Going reading primer I had in the second grade told the story of an English boy and girl who lived in Hastings, England and rode a beautiful mare named Dolly.  Also,  I loved The Dolly Suite by Gabriel Faure.  "Her name is Dolly."   (These past two days I had gotten fast at equine decision-making.) 
         "What a sweet name."
      Debbie and I ironed out a few more logistical details and it was settled.  I'd drive down that Saturday afternoon as soon as I'd finished an interview with Massachussetts Horse magazine.   
         Debbie Blascke called at at 8:05  Saturday morning.      
      "We've been delayed.  We're still an hour away--lot of construction.  Didn't want you to worry.  We'll call as soon as they're loaded and were on our way."
       Two lessons later and still the phone hadn't rung.  It was approaching eleven.  I knew I shouldn't annoy these kind people.  After all, they called as soon as they were delayed--that they would phone when they were en route.  Still, I couldn't bear it.  I dialed and got Debbie's voice mail.   Hmmn, maybe there was a glut of people picking up their horses.  Or, maybe there was loading trouble.  I had visions of my filly flipping over backwards.  Within five minutes of my hanging up the phone rang.
       "Well, they're both on and the ad was right--she is one terrified baby.  She's never had a halter on in her life.  It took a half hour halter her and almost an hour more to load.  I'm afraid she got a bit dinged up.   She went over backwards but she seems okay."
       "Oh, God.  How am I going to load her when I get to your place?"                                                                                                                                                                 
       "You're not, we're coming to you.  You might never get out of Connecticut, and we're don't want to put her through it again.  We'll see you in about two and a half hours."
        Incredible, these wonderful people had already added and extra hour and half working with my obviously semi-feral filly.  And now they were adding yet another three hours to their already
very long and exhausting day.  And I had no idea that my day of  wonderful people--not to mention a wonderful horse little horse-- was just beginning.