08/16/2026
2 weeks after Bean's passing, my mind is still reeling. It's hard to step in the barn, to do my job. Hard to give others the attention they deserve. Simply put, I'm shattered.
Time heals hearts, but this one will take a long, long time.
So often I've mentored horse owners with the words, "Let them go on a good day." "Better to be 1 day early than 1 day late." "It's time."
On August 1st, I needed to hear those words as I wrestled with a heartbreaking decision that would change my life.
Baker Bean was born into horrible circumstances, orphaned with no care, impounded by animal control with very little hope of survival.
His body was so frail, he didn't even qualify as a 1 on the body condition scale. He had a nail through his foot and an unprecedented parasite load in his body. He was alive by sheer will alone.
That willpower served him well over the years.
Bean's first few weeks were spent at Days End Farm in critical care. He had to be physically picked up when he laid down, unable to get on his feet alone. He was hand-fed every couple of hours and supervised around the clock.
That was 20 years ago, long before SHEW existed.
I was then a very active volunteer and mentor at Days End.
During his beginning days, I was in a bad accident with my truck and (empty) trailer on my way to Days End to transport some event stuff for them. A bad head and brain injury left me in a very vulnerable place, physically and mentally.
I've often said Baker Bean saved my life then. I very clearly remember that place between life and death. It was my thoughts of this little c**t trying so hard to live that made all the difference in my own recovery.
If he could hang on, so could I.
Once I was somewhat better and Bean was on his way—still critical, but encouraging—he was brought to me. Days End was still at a much smaller location then, and a very large impoundment was coming in. Therefore, Bean was relocated to me much earlier than would have normally happened. He was still critical and needing a lot of additional care and supervision.
His care became my mission. I slept with him, ate with him, and rarely left his side in the early days. No one expected he'd ever grow up. The goal was to just give him a home and love him for as long as he had—weeks, months—but nobody ever expected years.
He was a comedian right from the start. His personality was bigger than his body. He taught himself to unzip my coat, untie my shoes, tickle my neck, drink beer and soda from a can or bottle, and stick his nose straight up in the air to watch birds and butterflies.
Years later, as a show horse, he was known to occasionally grab a flower or 2 from the side of the dressage arena on his way by, or get completely distracted by a butterfly.
Always a youngster at heart.
He loved the cross-country courses. In his mind, nothing was too big or too fast. At 16 hands, his body hadn't grown without significant problems, so he was never allowed to jump very high. His joints didn't develop fully to support his bones, and his mind never surpassed that of a 3-year-old. Bean was extremely smart but had a very limited attention span. He found fun and adventure in everything he did, every day.
I've often wondered if he remembered those early days alone in that horrible place. His life here at Safe Haven allowed him to never have a worry or a care about anything. He was the poster child for pampered pets.
To his riders, over the years, he was challenging, to say the least. But oh, what a tremendous teacher he was!
Let's just say, he had his own version of artistic expression in the many disciplines he experienced. Sometimes you just had to laugh and say, "That's Bean!"
Bean was retired more than once. But in true Baker Bean style, he just kept coming back. He loved to work and be in the middle of all things. From hunters to eventing, to dressage and working equitation, he's done it all.
In the years when he couldn't be ridden due to various health issues—eye surgery, tumors, joint issues, Lyme disease, weird liver function issues, and a host of other things—he became a master at groundwork and playing at liberty.
But most of all, he was my best friend through 2 decades of trauma and never-ending changes in my life.
Just this time last year, I had started riding again after a long break in hopes of a future century ride in a couple of years. (Century rides are when the combined ages of horse and rider are 100.) That would lead he and I into retirement. But then he got hit with another weird strain of Lyme and the many complications that go with it.
You see, when he was young, due to severe starvation, he never developed a normal immune system and was always medically very fragile.
Now at 21 years old, his body had struggled for 10 months. He seemed better but couldn't keep weight on no matter what we did. He had a team of vets over the last year trying to help him.
In the end, he started having seizures. On the morning of August 1st, he had a significant one. Even though he came out of it, it left him uncharacteristically anxious and unable to see properly. It took someone else to remind me, "Let him go on a good day."
Knowing that the seizures would come more frequently now and that next time he might get hurt or accidentally hurt someone, I knew this was one of the last "good days."
I had the opportunity to try to give him a good death.
So, surrounded by people who loved him, my husband and I, together, said "Goodbye" to the best horse ever. My confidante, my best friend, my once-in-a-lifetime heart horse.
Special thanks to all our crew, vets, and volunteers who made sure Bean always had his special needs met and lots of attention every single day.
Someday, I'll hear that knocking on the door again when he welcomes me home.
(If you knew Bean, you understand.)
