I remember stillness before safety. The way my weight settled into straw, the quiet ache in my feet, the habit of watching before breathing. Whether I stood inside a stall or beneath a shelter open to the sky, I learned to make small spaces feel like refuge. My white coat carried dust and memory. My dark eyes learned to hold more than they revealed.

I remember my mother. She was enormous and calm, her body like a wall against the world. I pressed my face into her side and learned what steadiness felt like. Her smell meant food, protection, belonging. When she shifted her weight, I shifted with her. When she rested, I rested. That was my first language. That was how I learned who I was.

Work came early. It always does for bodies like mine. Hands looked at my legs and shoulders and decided I could pull more than I should. I tried to be good at it. I learned to lean forward, to brace, to keep going when my feet burned. The pain crept in slowly, then all at once. My hind hooves rotted from the inside out. Each step became a negotiation. Still, I showed up. Still, I worked. I did not know another way.

There came a time when the pain was louder than the commands. When stopping me felt easier than fixing me. I stood tied to a wall in a place full of noise and fear, waiting for whatever comes when no one expects you to last. I had learned resignation by then. It sat deep in my chest.

Then a hand touched me without taking anything. A voice told me I was okay. That someone had me. I followed because hope, even when fragile, still moves the body forward.

Healing was not gentle at first. My hooves were opened, cleaned, stripped of what had been killing me. I stood for it. I understood, in a way that has nothing to do with language, that endurance had finally been asked for the right reason. Each day after that was quieter. Each day meant I was still here.

The name came then. Arnie. A human had left the world, and I was asked to carry his name forward. I hold it carefully. Names matter when they are given with intention.

When I arrived here, touch frightened me. My body remembered hands that hurt. I flinched before I could think. No one punished that. No one rushed me past it. Time slowed. Care stayed consistent. Fear loosened its grip one breath at a time.

I am the only mule here, but I am not alone. The mares greet me with familiarity. Their attention feels warm, unguarded. And there is one companion who understands me without needing sight. We stand together because we choose to. We share space because it feels right. Survivors recognize one another.

Now my hooves are wrapped in care, not urgency. My body is filling out. My heart is learning that rest can be real. I lean into touch. I lift my head. I wait without bracing.

I am not what I endured.
I am what stayed.

I am Arnie.