The Horse With No Name - A Bond Forged in Quiet Trust

I was working at a photography event in February 2023 when my phone rang. Normally, I’d ignore calls while shooting but for some reason, I picked up. On the other end was a friend, Michelle, who is the founder of Happily Heifer After, an amazing farm animal rescue based in South East Queensland (https://www.happilyheiferafter.org/) who’d just been contacted about a horse left behind on a cattle property. The owners had sold the land, and the horse wasn’t part of the future plans.

It was a Saturday. The truck to the knackery was already booked for Tuesday.

No name. No story. Just a deadline.

That call changed the course of one horse’s life - and, in many ways, it changed mine too.

We didn’t know much - just that he was alone, unwanted, and running out of time. I rang a friend, Jennifer, from Purely Positive Animal Training (https://esi-education.com/practitioners/jen-davy-brisbane-qld/) who works closely with horses, helping them and their humans build trust and better habits. I needed to be sure we had enough room on our small property to take on one more. She didn’t hesitate: “You’ve got the space.”

Next, I called my then-girlfriend (now fiancée!) and told her everything. We didn’t need to talk it over for long - we both knew the answer. We’d take him. No hesitation. We had no idea what kind of shape he’d be in, how he'd behave, or what sort of care he might need. But I knew, deep down, that he deserved a chance.

I couldn’t shake the thought of him for the rest of the day. Who was he? What had he been through? How does a horse end up with no one - no name, no history, just a looming truck ride and an expiration date?

When he arrived, he was a ghost of a horse. Thin. Lifeless coat. Head hanging low. He didn’t flinch when we approached - he didn’t do much of anything. Just stood there, quiet and resigned, like he’d learned not to expect kindness. There were no papers. No name. Nothing to hint at who he’d once been, or what he’d seen.

But the look in his eyes said enough: he hadn’t been living. He’d just been surviving.

He was emaciated - starved, really. Every rib and bone showed. Years of neglect clung to him like a second skin. His tail, once meant to swish flies and signal joy, was matted with old diarrhea, hardened into a single, heavy rope of hair.

His eyes were what stopped me cold. They weren’t just tired - they were hollow. Dull. The eyes of a survivor who’d seen too much and been spared too little. They reminded me of war veterans - those who’d made it through the worst but left pieces of themselves behind.

His tongue hung from his mouth, limp and dry. His hooves were so overgrown he could barely walk, every step a slow, painful shuffle.

We called the vet straight away. He was checked from nose to tail, had his hooves trimmed, and his teeth floated. That’s when we learned his tongue had likely been hanging out because of an old, untreated jaw fracture - an injury he’d simply lived with, silently, for who knows how long. Thankfully, after his dental work, he was able to hold his tongue mostly back in his mouth again.

After a thorough vet check, we learned he had Cushing’s Disease - a common condition in older horses. Pituitary pars intermedia dysfunction (PPID), commonly known as Cushing's disease, is one of the most common endocrine disorders in horses and ponies and it affects the horse’s ability to regulate certain hormones. It can lead to symptoms like a long, shaggy coat, excessive thirst, and a weakened immune system. While it's manageable with medication and proper care, it’s a lifelong condition that requires monitoring.

We washed him gently, layer by layer. My fiancée spent three hours sitting quietly behind him with a bucket of warm water, brushes, scissors, and every shampoo we had. She worked patiently, cutting through the filth and matting, untangling the damage piece by piece, until his tail finally resembled a tail again.

We decided to name him Gandalf. It just felt right. He was old, wise in a way that only those who’ve endured suffering can be, and his skin was a tired, ashen grey. The name suited the quiet dignity he carried, even in his brokenness.

But as the weeks went by, something incredible happened. As he healed - body and spirit -his coat began to change. The grey started to fade, and in its place, a soft white began to emerge. Bit by bit, he was becoming something new. Just like the famed Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings, our old grey wanderer transformed into a figure of quiet strength and light.

Within just two short weeks, Gandalf’s body began to change. He filled out with healthy weight, his ribs softened under a new layer of condition, and his posture grew steadier. But the most remarkable transformation wasn’t physical - it was in his eyes.

The dull, lifeless stare was gone. In its place was something softer. Brighter. He looked at us differently now - not with fear or resignation, but with quiet trust. His whole body seemed to exhale. He knew, at last, that he was safe. He was loved. Gandalf wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was beginning to live.

The longer he stayed with us, the more of himself he revealed. There were still hard days, of course - recovery doesn’t follow a straight line - but his eyes continued to brighten. Gandalf started to whicker when we approached. He learned that food came regularly, that hands could be gentle, that a name could mean belonging.

What was Gandalf’s backstory? Truthfully, we don’t know much. What we do know is heartbreaking.

He’d been abandoned on a cattle farm for somewhere between 10 to 15 years. Sometimes there were cattle. Sometimes there weren’t. But Gandalf was always there - alone. Year after year, forgotten and surviving on what the land could offer. No regular care. No herd. No companionship. Just empty paddocks and silence.

When it came time to “catch” him, it wasn’t gentle. We were told someone would sneak up behind him and throw a rope around his neck to get a halter on. For a prey animal like a horse, that isn’t just undignified - it’s terrifying. And fear like that leaves a mark. One that takes years to undo.

No one really knew what breed he was. He’s short, almost pony-sized, but with a broad, solid frame, feathers around his hooves, and a strong, square head. We suspect he’s a Welsh Pony Cob crossed with a stock horse. But in truth, Gandalf has always defied labels. He’s simply... himself.

Over time, I worked with him. Trained with him. Grew with him. And in the process, he taught me something I hadn’t realized I was missing: patience. I came to understand that with my other horses, I’d sometimes been applying too much pressure. Gandalf showed me that a softer hand, a quieter presence, could build something far stronger than force ever could.

I had to earn his trust - not just so I could handle him, but so I could care for him. His daily medication for Cushing’s Disease meant I had to be able to catch him, check his condition, groom him. Even after three years, I still have to approach him carefully. Trust like his is hard-earned, and easily lost.

Then, in early 2024, something changed.

We already knew his hindgut health was fragile - his age and long-term starvation had taken their toll. When he developed ulcers, it wasn’t a surprise. But the way they made themselves known was. One afternoon, as I was grooming him, Gandalf suddenly spun and kicked at me - hard and fast.

There was no warning. No shift in his body language. Just pain, expressed the only way a stoic animal like him knew how. I managed to step back, absorbing the brunt of his kicks on my thighs and knuckles. I was lucky. It could have been so much worse.

But what followed was worse in another way. Gandalf had never hurt me before. And now, for the first time since my service in Afghanistan, I felt afraid - really afraid. Not just of getting hurt, but of him. And I knew he was just as scared. In his mind, I’d hurt him. In mine, he’d betrayed me.

But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was: he was in pain, and he didn’t know how else to tell me.

We treated the ulcers. The physical wounds healed quickly. But the emotional ones - his and mine - took longer. We had to begin again, from a place of mutual hurt. With the gentle guidance of Jen, we started to rebuild. Slowly. Quietly. Consistently. Step by step, we began to trust again.

And it worked.

Now, we’re close again. Maybe even closer than before. In March 2024, we moved to a 40-acre property - open space, rich pasture, and room to just be. Gandalf now has a herd, freedom, food, and a life without obligations. No ropes. No fear. Just the peace he’s always deserved.

Gandalf will never be the kind of horse who gallops to the gate or plays with other horses. He moves slowly, on his own terms, with the quiet dignity of someone who’s seen both the worst and the best of what life can offer.

But now, when I walk into the paddock, he looks up. He watches me come. And more often than not, he takes a few steps in my direction - not because he has to, but because he wants to.

That small gesture, those quiet, deliberate steps, are his way of saying I trust you.

And that, after everything, is the greatest triumph of all.

Day 1 with us.

Day 1 with us.

Gandalf today.