The dream is over.

Specifically, the dream of wild horses. All my life, I’d dreamed of wild horses. They fascinated me and inspired me. As a child, I would spend hours drawing them, and even romping around in the back yard and pretending to be them. I was always the stallion. Even then, I was a bossypants.

In 2017, my dream of actually seeing wild horses was realized. I took a guided tour near Minden, Nevada to see the Pine Nut herds. It was absolutely glorious. My Horsey Girl heart sparkled as if I’d transformed back into that wild two-legged stallion bossing all the mares in my yard. Because I was on a guided tour, with someone who knew the horses intimately, I heard all the stories I’d never have known, and learned all about the subtle behavior and communication that goes on between the horses. Each had a name and a story, and my guide, Mary, knew them all. Absolutely astounding. There is much more to a horse than meets the eye. Their feelings, wisdom, and social connections are much more intricate than we could possibly imagine. And that goes double for wild horses. They have survived for centuries by being smarter, faster, and tougher than their predators and the often harsh environment in which they thrive.

My favorite moment was when the magnificent, iconic wild stallion, Blondie — the color of a new copper penny, with a think flowing blonde main and tail, and massive, rippling muscles – carefully and gently guided his young son, Cree (his spitting image) out to meet the “bachelor band,” which is a roving group of adolescent future-stallions. When a colt gets to be about two years old, and approaching maturity, the stallions start weeding them out of the herd because they are competition for the mares. Some day the colts become fully mature stallions, and there’s always the chance that they may return to the herd and try to steal the mares from dear old Dad.

Cree and the bachelors squealed and stomped, as Blondie watched on. However after a moment or two, Cree’s mother walked away from the herd and stared at Blondie. Blondie stared back. Slowly, he singled Cree out from the other colts, and returned him to his mother. Mary explained that the mare had communicated to Blondie that it wasn’t time for Cree to leave, and to bring him back. Blondie obeyed. Although the stallions protect their herd, it’s actually the mares that make the decisions.

It was so amazing and impressive, that I retold this story in my first book, “The Elements of Horse Spirit — The Magical Bond Between Humans and Horses.” I followed the Pine Nut horses on social media, and was always thrilled to hear updates on my favorite. In the time that transpired between when I visited them and the present, Cree finally did mature, and did take on his father. And — he bested him. Cree took over the herd, but the bond with Blondie was so strong, he allowed him to stay. Amazing.

I had a favorite photo of Blondie, sparring with another gorgeous stallion named Mystique, and had it enlarged, where it now graces almost the entire wall of my family room, and is the featured photo on this story. Looking at it immediately makes my heart sparkle. Until yesterday.

The post on the Pine Nut Wild Horse Advocates page on Facebook broke my heart. Blondie and his herd were the latest victims of a mass Bureau of Land Management (BLM) roundup. The horses were driven into paddock traps, forced onto a livestock trailer and hauled away. Those that weren’t caught tried to follow and screamed for their family members. Consider this quote from one of the PNWHA’s posts about this tragedy: “I left the range, after the BLM drove off with all of Blondie’s band in their stock trailers. Bodie, the lieutenant of the band, chased the stock trailers for the better part of a mile across the range until they hit East Valley Road and increased speed. He screamed the whole way and the way back as he tried to locate his mare, he had left behind. His loss was real… and raw.”

If that doesn’t pinch you right in the heart… I don’t know what’s wrong with you.

The reason for the BLM’s onslaught against the wild horses — not just in Carson Valley, Nevada, but everywhere — is that the horses graze on public land that cattle ranchers feel entitled to use. For free. The other reason is that people build houses near, or on, the territories where the horses roam, and then whine when the horses trample their precious lawns. They complain to the feds, and soon the horses are rounded up. Sometimes helicopters are used to drive the horses, and because they are frantic, they can be seriously injured or die in the process. Small foals that can’t keep up are left behind for the coyotes.

The facade program for the BLM’s demonic deed is an adoption program. Certain horses are put up for adoption, others go through training programs with inmates. The inmates break them (physically and in spirit), and then the horses go up for adoption. Those that go to three auctions and don’t get adopted are called “three strikes” horses, and are then destined for the same cruel fate as the others who either aren’t adopted or aren’t suitable for adoption: They are held in small, crowded pens (and it ain’t cheap to feed all those horses, so the cover story that the horses cost the government money when running wild is pure bullshit) and many of them are again herded onto stock trailers and taken to Mexico or Canada for slaughter. That’s the government’s wicked reach-around: While it’s illegal to slaughter horses for consumption (human or animal) in the U.S., it’s not illegal to haul them to a bordering country for slaughter. Apparently Europe has quite a taste for horse meat, and the government can get a pretty penny for the horses when sold by the pound.

My beloved Blondie will never be broken or adopted. He’s too old, too wild, too powerful, and too dangerous. He will end up on a fancy French dinner plate with some escargot and a glass of wine. I am just HEARTSICK.

There are those who say, “Oh, the horses are starving and sick, and this is humane.” More bullshit. Look at the my photos of those horses. They are fat and glossy, surviving on sage brush and weeds. They have evolved to be tough, smart survivalists, able to withstand biting cold, withering heat, and meager food. Sure, some die in the struggle of the natural world, and coyotes get many of the newborn foals. But in spite of it all, the horses thrive — without any help from humans at all. The horses don’t need anything from us other than to be left alone.

So, what can be done? Well, if someone knows, I’d sure like to hear about it. Because it is the federal government, good luck getting through to anyone, let alone anyone who cares. Contact our senators and representatives? Good luck with that too. I’ve done that before. If you get through at all, it’s just to a bored intern, who says they’ll take it up with the boss, but I doubt it ever happens. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a form letter response that will feign concern, but in the end — they do nothing. Beyond simple apathy to what any of their constituents want, our federal representatives have bigger problems to be concerned with, from school shootings to international struggles to their own re-election campaigns (their only true concern), and the horses fall through the cracks of our attention like the sands of time. Lost to memory and lore.

I don’t have an answer. I tell this tragic story in an attempt to purge the pain and sadness in my heart. Blondie and his herd are gone forever. And, the BLM will be back, rounding up any other herds that have so far escaped. Soon, all the wild horses will be nothing but stories and memories, and fascinations in the hearts of children. We are such a stupid, selfish species. I’m so ashamed of us.

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 Remember the Wild Horses