An excerpt from the intro of God's Pony by Jamilee Shaffer (in publishing October of 2007):

"You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
-Eleanor Roosevelt

This is my story. The tears, the private moments of desperate aloneness, the joy so rich it colors my world and convinces me to open once more the doors closed by pain and time’s passing. I realize now the gift of not being able to see the future. I don’t think I would have the strength required to move beyond the darkness and my demons. I had no idea that there would be a relationship that cost me my life. That my own willfulness and anger would unleash a chain reaction I could not control and just when it seemed I figured things out, an unbelievable and tragic event.

I have asked if I would do this thing had I known the twists and turns of the road. None of us knows what lies around the bend, do we? I found in myself the ability to heal from the most painful emotional and physical wounds. I discovered the energetic power of touch. I embarked on a lifelong journey of the Native American Spiritual tradition. I longed to meet the Divine, to have an experience of God so up close and personal there would be no room for doubt. Little did I know this meeting would come with a price written in my own blood.

Finally I emerge into the sunlight, embracing fully the whole of life. Finding my road home. The knowledge and experience creating a woman for whom I have the deepest respect and love...

A second excerpt from God's Pony telling the story of "a price written in my own blood" from chapter The Attack:

The Attack

We all have our version of the story. This man I was growing to love and accept had a familiar tale of the destructive power of addiction. His lengthy marriage and the painful divorce brought on by the cycle of promises not to drink followed by drunken sprees. The midlife crisis relation ship with a much younger woman. The drinking and drugs and bad behavior, so obviously different now that he was sober. It all painted a picture of a man wanting to get his derailed life back on track.

There was a missing piece. Bob did not seem to have the kind of conviction I had found not only in myself, in others who I knew that were dedicated to changing their lives. When probed about details he would get edgy and defensive. I didn't blame him. I knew what it felt like to be ashamed of one's life. I believed that time would be the balm for shame. It had been for me, I believed he would come to love the chaos that it takes to wake up.

In mid summer he went to Montana to visit a sister and his father. We had been seeing each other for three months. There was a pattern emerging in our relationship. We would have intimate conversations and a deepening of the bond, followed by a pushing apart. His trip was the biggest push yet. He seemed cranky and defensive on the phone and I had that feeling in my gut. I knew something was off. He assured me that it was the stress of being a sober son in the company of an alcoholic father. Time would later show that he had not gone to Montana , that he was in fact, keeping the company of an old girlfriend and doing old familiar things. I still am awed by the eager way I ate up his story.

Upon his return, there was distant. The feeling that something was out of whack persisted and grew stronger. I decided that I was being paranoid and that it was time for me to learn more about trust. The answer I sought seemed to be about letting go. I realized that I needed to concentrate on what I was doing and feeling. I did not want this relationship to be one where I lost myself. I figured that I had been off about him, that he was probably wonderful and that I just did not get it.

As the summer progressed, Bob asked if I would let him come to work with me. I was finishing a landscape project and could use his help. It was good fun and we once more became friends and lovers. The days were easy and relaxed. I spent mornings working with him and afternoons with my horses and students.

I had at some point in my life been told that I ask too many questions. I promised my self that I would mind my own business. Bob could tell me as much or as little of his life as he chose. I was acting like a grown up. I had often wanted to be able to do relationship with little or no attachment and I thought this was how.

Summer ripened into fall. The days were crisp and bright. On one of these beautiful mornings, my truck decided to stop running. The mechanic informed me it would cost more than the value of the truck to fix it. Unexpectedly, Bob offered to replace the vehicle. I refused and he insisted. He said it was his gift to me and the least I could do was accept.

We went to the dealer in town where he said he was a friend with the owner. I test drove a number of different models and settled on one. Bob wanted it to have bigger tires and a better hitch. That made sense to me, as I hauled horses at least a few times a month. The work was ordered and I waited.

I borrowed a friends extra car. A week came and went. In the middle of the second week I asked about the dealer's progress and was met with an angry answer about being pushy. It seemed so inappropriate and strange. I called the dealer myself and was informed that Bob had cancelled the deal the day after it was made. Baffled, I called a friend to talk it over. She suggested we call her sister who worked at a bank and could check Bob out.

The results were staggering. It revealed a tangled web of lies. There was no long-term marriage. No, there were five ex -wives. All who had lost money and some that had lost their homes to Bob. I felt sick. I wondered what the hell I was doing in this soap opera. I confronted him, asking for the truth. He cried and poured out a story of pain and alcoholism. A story familiar to me. One of using people and hating himself. He sobbed out his wish for change. My anger faded to remorse at my judgment and indictment of his behavior. Little did I know that we would repeat this pattern until it killed me.

After Bob's confession and my acceptance, things were different. It was as if the veil had lifted and now he was free to share all of himself. I met his son and heard stories of his other children and grandchildren. There was a freedom between us and I marveled at the gift of forgiveness. I saw myself learning the true meaning of love. I released my judgment and moved forward. This was an opportunity to grow and I gladly embraced it. Who was I to call the kettle black? I had to believe that he could change if I was to see my own life in a different light.

By now fall had stretched her long dark days to late November. Bob had moved into the house with my roommate Jenn and I. We started doing in a workbook together. It asked us to explore ideas about God and Love and Life. From this sprang an intimacy I longed for. We were our own family. Life was good and Christmas promised to be wonderful.

One evening in the middle of the week Bob did not come home. He had been working as a painter on a local crew. We all had dinner together and usually went to a meeting. No call, nothing. Midnight came and went. I listened for his truck and still nothing. I prayed that he was not hurt, I couldn't imagine what had happened to him. He came stumbling into the house around three in the morning. He was so drunk he could not stand up. A friend had picked him up at a bar and brought him home.

Relapse is always a possibility for an alcoholic. We had an agreement that we, any of the three of us would not be in relationship with someone who was actively practicing their disease. We had discussed the fact that it could cause harm to the rest to support drinking. The next morning Jenn and I told Bob that if he drank again he would have to leave.

Of course he drank. The real support would not have come from fear. It is a frightening thing to look so closely at the alcoholic in the throes. I felt helpless. We had many late night heart- rending conversations. I knew that just talking about it was not an answer. Bob left angry, saying he felt betrayed.

Over the next six weeks he did all the things that substance abusers do. He let himself into the house and stole both checks and a credit card. He expressed remorse and cried for help. I stood in the fire of this ugliness and started doing what I learned in my own recovery. I held him capable and accountable. I took him to meetings and told him to connect with men. I removed myself and refused to answer the two in the morning call. I asked him to repay the money or face charges.

Finally, I reported him to the police. He asked to see me on Sunday night, the twenty-fifth of January. To have dinner, to tell me of his plan to go to treatment. I agreed. We met at the edge of town at his request. I climbed into his truck and he said he was taking me to the beach. We had a beautiful quiet dinner. He told me of nights spent in his truck. He said he wanted to be sober more than anything and was going to put himself into treatment the following morning. He said he understood the way I had been supportive with accountability. He said he wished someone had done it a long time ago.

We drove back in silence. It was not so strained. He dropped me off at my car and wanted to come by. He had no where else to go and did not want to spend another night in his truck. Our couch was available. He followed me home.

There was something about the next morning that felt strange to me. I thought I was probably tuning into Bob's anxiety about the prospect of change, even healthy change. I got up and dressed. We walked a few blocks to a favorite coffee shop. Around ten and after the second cup he said he would be okay and that I could get back to my schedule. I left him at the steamy counter and hurried through the wet gray morning back to my home. The rain was getting more insistent shifting from soft drizzle to sheets that made their way sideways across the concrete surface.

I had only been home for twenty minutes or so when Bob came up the steps, dripping with rain. The person he needed to see at Chemical Dependency was out until late afternoon. I had enough time to strip off the wet outer layer and throw them into the dryer. I could hear the rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump in the background. My hair was soaked and I had a towel on my head. Would I take a ride with him? He wanted to spend some time with me and take me to a place he had stashed some money while drinking. I pulled the towel from my head and resigned myself to the hours it would take to dry.

He said he felt terrible about stealing from me and wanted to repay his debt. We sat in an awkward silence. This was the fifth or sixth time of arranging to repay the debt. Couldn't I see he was turning a new leaf? Give him a chance to take care of this before he goes to rehab.

I made some calls and cleared what was left of the morning. We agreed to be back by noon and with that I climbed into his dark blue pickup and we headed south out of town. I remember thinking that I couldn't tell where the sky and the land came together.

Bob filled the drive with stories of his boyhood. He described the time he had been swimming with one of his sisters in the creek near their home and she almost drowned. She was pulled into the fast current and then under the water's surface. He described his terrible feeling of helplessness. Then, magically she popped up down stream, gasping for air. I reached out and put my hand over his. I knew that pain of being too young to know what to do. That ugly feeling of catastrophe happening within reach and being able to do nothing to stop it.

We drove into the woods and turned off the county road. The old logging route was slightly over grown. Bob wasn't so sure now that he was here. His memory clouded by drinking. It had been dark when he hid the money. Maybe this place, by the old swimming hole. He turned the truck around and retraced his path, then turned around again. I reminded him of our noon agreement.

He pulled the truck up to the head of a trail to the creek. Down here, it's got to be down here. He asked me to walk into the brush with him. It was raining even harder and inside the truck warm and dry. I refused, citing the rain. He became insistent and seemed anxious. The hair on the back of my neck raised. I suddenly felt the desire to get the hell out of there.

I would not leave the cab of the truck. I said I was done with the wild goose chase. I wanted to go home. He sullenly turned the truck around and we headed back. The heavy silence punctuated by the slap of wipers on the windshields surface.

I had several riding lessons to teach that afternoon. After Bob dropped me off at my home, I changed clothes and grabbed some food to take with me to the barn. I ate on the ten-minute drive and thought over the morning's events. It did not seem like there was any money to me. Why had he wanted me to go into the woods? Why did I go? Always give another chance. I certainly wished that someone had been there for me. I had work to do that I loved. I put the strange events out of my head.

Bob called a couple hours later. I asked about his appointment. Everything was set. He would enter treatment in the morning. I felt relieved and excited for him. I told him I thought he was giving himself an enormous gift. He thought so too. I wish him well and got back to my students. I had a strange sinking feeling when I saw his truck pull into the barn lot an hour or so later. His unsteady gate validated it. As he approached I could smell alcohol. He was obviously intoxicated. Letting himself into the arena he came out to the center, interrupting the lesson.

He wasn't leaving until I talked with him. My student looked alarmed and asked if every thing was okay. Bob yelled at her to mind her own business, this was between the two of us. I excused myself and moved him out of the ring.

I was so angry with myself. What was I doing believing this liar? I knew that it made no sense to talk to someone who was drunk. I asked if he had eaten and he said no. He stubbornly asserted that he would do nothing until I talked to him. I felt the eyes of everyone at the barn watching. All I could think to do was get some food in him and sober him up.

I told him I would take him into town and get some dinner for him. That seemed to ease things. I didn't think he should drive, but I didn't want to be in the same vehicle with him. In the end, he followed.

We slid into a booth and just looked at each other. I told him I couldn't believe what an asshole he was being. He laughed and told me to get over it. I ordered some food and he ordered a pitcher of beer. My phone rang and I spoke with a friend for a moment until Bob pulled the phone from my hand and told the person to stay the hell away from me. He hung up and dropped the phone on the table. A passing waitress asked if everything was okay. He barked at her to leave us alone. I glared and told him to pay attention to his own life.

He changed his mind about the treatment, he did not want to go. I did not have anything else to talk about with him. I knew I was looking at a full-blown alcoholic. It was like being in a car without brakes. He urged me to have a drink. It was crazy and it made sense. I couldn't beat his disease, so I joined him. I picked up the pint and drank it quickly before changing my mind. It was at that very moment that I realized that this person did not care for me. He cared even less for himself. I got up and left.

My house was a few blocks away. I parked my truck and went up the back stairs and into the kitchen. My arms were full of riding gear and clothes so I kicked the door shut. I had taken my hair down in the restaurant and was surrounded by red curls. I walked from the kitchen into the dinning room and was setting my stuff down when I heard the back door open. I felt annoyed that I had not shut it properly. I turned to see Bob standing there, his face flushed, staring at me.

What are you doing here I demanded. He wanted to be sure. Was I really done with this relationship? Yes, the answer a definite yes. Okay he said as he turned to leave. I felt a wave of relief. I really was done. I turned back to the dinning room table and braced myself to pry my slip on boots off. I did not hear him cross those few steps. I could not see as my hair fell forward.

He hit me in the left side and I felt an odd pressure. Quickly he grabbed me from behind as the Marine Corp Training had taught. What are you doing I shouted as we struggled backwards. I felt the same odd pressure again and again in my back and neck. I caught him in the face with my fingertips. We flailed backwards into a bookcase and I lost my balance. I crashed onto the floor with my face.

Bob was on me, holding me down and stomping on the back of my head and neck. I heard a sound like a handful of popcorn being crushed. Lights shot across my vision with each cruel blow. Another sound like the breaking of a piece of kindling. I could hear him panting from the exertion. I heard myself ask him what he had done. My voice and breathing all bubbly. I answered my own question. Bob, you've killed me.

He straddled my shoulders and lifted my head by my now blood soaked hair. His knife flashed as reached down to slit my throat. I got my left hand up and watched helplessly as he cut my thumb free. The pain was like a fire. I felt the bite of the steel as sank into the flesh of my neck and traced a path up my chin. I could hear the gurgling sound of blood welling in my throat. I watched his recently new white tennis shoes, now splattered red walk into the bathroom. I heard the water running. I saw him quietly walk back through the kitchen and out the door. As it clicked shut I could just make out a large clump of my own bloody hair hanging from the handle.