The Theft of Lady: A Horse Owner's Nightmare

by Liz Pursian

Following the theft of her cherished horse, Lady, she endured the grim task of identifying the mare's remains at the slaughterhouse.

The call came as I planned my wedding—my second chance at happiness. They said Lady was fine. It wasn’t until I returned from my honeymoon and visited the boarding facility that I learned the truth: my best friend had been gone for two months.

Panic seized me. Lady, the horse who was there when my son was born, my silent therapist through loss, my rock. She was gone.

I had moved her to that seemingly ideal facility so she could frolic carefree in retirement. In my wedding bliss, I let time slip between visits—a mistake I will regret until the day I die. Now, the guilt was a physical weight in my chest.

I filed a police report, though the investigator offered little help. I combed the countryside, knocking on doors, walking through barns when no one was around. I was obsessed. People started telling me they’d had her for a week or two before she was moved. I was just one day behind the thieves when, in a panic, they took her to the slaughterhouse in DeKalb.

I first met Lady in a warm-up ring at a show years ago. I thought they were beating her to death; I didn’t know then that was how some trained halter horses when the judges weren't looking. Overwhelmed with pity, I bought her on the spot.

She was so spooked she refused a trailer ride. I walked her 22 miles home to the boarding barn, down the side of the road. I spent the next year earning her trust, telling her my whole life story, never laying a hand on her in anger. Seven months later, she entered the show ring again. She took fifth place out of 27 entries. I never used a crop. I still have that ribbon. To me, it is gold.

Lady gave me so many years. She was the one true friend I could always count on.

The police eventually went into the slaughter plant after many desperate phone calls. My worst fear was true.

The employees testified under oath in the DuPage County Courthouse: when a horse arrives in good flesh and coat, they are moved to the head of the line. They ignore brands or tattoos and only remove chips to avoid "tainting the meat," knowing full well the animals are likely stolen.

My Lady was gone. The plant offered me reimbursement for what they paid for her, but I refused the money. I wanted them to know she didn't have a price tag; no amount of money could bring back the friend who used to nuzzle me and call out my name. I wanted them to know what they did was so wrong. I couldn't let them win by paying me off.

I was allowed to identify her hide from a stack of others—a nightmare I revisit often.

For years, I was horseless. I hated anyone who had a horse; I didn’t want to be part of that world. It felt like a child had been murdered, but I had no body, only the endless, consuming guilt.

They say it wasn't my fault, but that doesn't help. Dealing with her death is an ongoing process. You don't "get over" the murder of your best friend; you learn to deal with it.

I still have that hate for those people, but I’ve learned I can hate them and still have a happy life. I just can’t let the hate let them win. What goes around comes around. The court case offered some closure: they lost.

Now I have four beautiful horses: Sharona, Zar, Spring, and Coty. They are very special to me, and while they can’t fill Lady’s shoes, I know they aren’t supposed to. Each of them has taken a piece of her. I call them the four pieces of a puzzle. Spring knows how to win me over, Coty makes me laugh, Zar knows when I need a good ride, and Sharona is the queen.

Lady will always be in my heart. The love I have for her is beyond words.

This narrative was initially posted on Stolen Horse International's website on August 2, 2002, and has since been revised and updated.