By Nancy Parshall
About atticus? What To Do A WOMAN FROM MICHIGAN SHARES HER PLIGHT RAISING A PROMISING SPORT HORSE. A
s I brushed Atticus, I thought about his patient poise in the cross-ties, his impeccable stall and ground manners, his willingness to trailer. I thought
about his beauty and athleticism. I thought about how when the tired farrier comes, we save Atticus for last knowing he won’t be any trouble. The farrier adores Atticus. But only the farrier. In truth, Atticus has been a disappointment to everyone else. Atticus was bred, well-bred
actually, at a known sport horse breeding facility in the Midwest. When I found him on an adoption website, I was like a last-second sniper on eBay, frantic to get my bid in. And I was thrilled to learn that Atticus was to be mine. He arrived with a gash in his fetlock, and a closer look at his adoption photo showed that he’d had the gash for a while. Maybe that’s why he was up for adoption. Or perhaps there was concern over the ever-present whites of his eyes. For some reason he’d disappointed his breeder, but that didn’t matter to me. I had a dazzling weanling with a brilliant future. Or so I believed. Rescuing horses hadn’t always been my plan, but I
needed to be rescued after reaching my 41st birthday without conceiving. I’d decided that if I couldn’t have my own baby, I’d return to horses and get a foal…or four.
And that’s what I did. I rescued them with the intention of keeping the two who looked most promising, but that plan backfired. Like a mother with a newborn, I fell in love with the lot the day they were delivered, and six years later, they’re still here. Atticus Finch was the best looking of “the boys.” He had a sloping shoulder, a lovely head and neck, and a short back. He was clearly going to be my star once he became friendly enough to be petted. Or led. Or even just approached. He was different from the other three, and I wasn’t the only one who recognized that. The other weanlings knew it too. His athleticism and bullying nature made him the guy on the playground that nobody
wanted to play with, but if that bothered him, he didn’t let on—he’d just take another run at them. I felt I could live with
Atticus’ wild eyes, his nervous demeanor, his lack of social finesse, because he had talent. Dressage was going to be
too limiting for him. Eventing was what he was made for. And he would have loved it, I’m
Top: Atticus (the chestnut on right) rounds up the other two- year-old geldings and a yearling. Bottom: Atticus as a three- year-old interacts with another adopted horse, Milo. Photos courtesy of Nancy Parshall
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