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Nina Fuller’s Go Go Story

Published: 1/24/2014
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Editor's Note: Photographer Nina Fuller, of Hollis Center, Maine, just received her Masters in Counseling/Psychology with a concentration in Equine Assisted Mental Health. She maintains a healthy herd at Lily Brook Farm. 
Thanks, Nina, for a delightful story and great images, too!


By Nina Fuller

Not long after I moved to Lily Brook Farm, I envisioned a paint foal running around the fields. I had a paint mare named Flurry and I loved very much. Flurry was not young. But I contemplated breeding her.
People would ask me, "Why do you want to do this?"
I would answer, "It's visual."

I figured if I had this vision of a paint foal and I had a paint mare, it made sense to breed her. I loved her so much and wanted to have her family with me for a long time.
My daughter, Lily, was working at a camp in Hope, Maine for the summer, and she took her horse, Jack with her. Not wanting Flurry to be alone I searched the local ads for a companion animal and found a donkey.

It was July 3, 2005 when I went to get the donkey. She was in a tiny muddy round pen with a beautiful stallion paint pony for just that one day. I named her Jenny and loaded her in the trailer (That sounds so simple...It was not.), and brought her back to Hollis as a gift for Flurry.

After the usual shenanigans and then the return of Lil's horse Jack, they settled in to a nice little herd. That fall, my sweet Flurry died. (It was one of those saddest days you never forget, but that is another story.)

That year, my son, Spencer, was off at college and Lily left for Central America. I was alone, and emailing the kids of the comings and goings on Lily Brook Farm. I kept saying that Jenny the donkey was getting really fat and I think she is pregnant.

I called the vet over and she told me to stop feeding the donkey so much. Jenny just kept getting fatter and fatter and I kept boring everyone with my certainty that the donkey was pregnant.

Lily told me I had "Empty Nest Menopausal Hysteria."

So I fretted and wondered about my own sanity for the winter.

Eleven months go by.
Lily emails from Guatemala, "Mom, it's been eleven months since you got Jenny, she is not pregnant and you have to let it go."
Ok, I'm thinking she is right.  I let it go, completely.

Gone.

Jenny is not pregnant. I really did completely let it go. 
It was a relief to not think about what a miracle it would be to have a little foal running around.

It was three weeks later, one week short of a year since Jenny arrived at Lily Brook Farm. I look out my window at sun-up to check on the animals, as I always do before heading out.

What?
What is that?
What?
No, it isn't!


A tiny spotted creature with gigantic ears, all wet and curly stands next to Jenny. I run down the stairs, run out to the barn and there is a spotted mule, a paint foal, newborn beautiful paint foal standing under her mom's neck, staring at me.
I hug him all over, kiss Jenny, cry, hug, run back into the house for my camera. I take a photo and send it to my daughter. No message. Just the photo.

"Holy sh*t, you were right!" was her reply.
Yes, I was.
I named him Milagro and I call him Go-Go. He ran around the field all summer, exactly like my vision.

It's a wild world. Believe in your visions. They may not happen the way you figure they will, but they will happen.                                

View Reader Comments:

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2/6/2014 Marsha Craig
You are indeed an amazing gifted woman. Loved the story and look forward to many more. I was just reading the article by mainefarmchick and I'm jealous that your kitchen window opens right into your pasture. Hopefully our paths will cross again and we enjoy being able to stay connected with you through Facebook. Hugs to you and all the four footed kids! Jack, Marsha & Lily
3/18/2014 Sheilah
What a wonderful story Nina, God brings us our dreams if you really believe and you never really gave up! It brings such love and joy to your heart!

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    "Love means attention, which means looking after the things we love. We call this stable management." - George H. Morris