More Than Our Skin

His right hoof hovered, though not in greeting, but in pleading. Its necrotic smell echoed the menace within, and that fleshy, granular plug did little to mask the deep, hollow cavern within.

It was clear: it was not just Bear’s footing at stake—it was his future.

This was how we met Bear—at his most vulnerable.

And yet somehow, he smiled. Not with his lips, but with the unwavering warmth of his deep, soulful brown eyes.

A gentle giant, a teddy bear, cloaked in another skin.

Though he limped into our barn, a shadow of his younger self—scrawny, dull-coated and hungry—he bounded straight into our hearts. There was something mystical about him. Something that shimmered beneath the despair still anchored to his bones.

And when his velvety, scabbed nose nudged gently into ours, it stirred something ancient. It tingled through our fingertips. It rippled through our arms and pulled us into a quiet, knowing embrace.

Had he lived before? Had we met before?

His humble majesty whispered yes. Perhaps Tolkien’s Gandalf in another form. Worn, but not weary. Fragile, but not broken.

And unmistakably good.

We drew another breath. Took another look. Felt another wave. And in Bear, we remembered: true beauty is not found in appearances, but in presence. In grace.

Though the world had failed him—neglected, discarded, left aching and forgotten— Bear bore no grudge. He held no fear. He carried no bitterness. His light had not been extinguished. It had only learned to glow from within.

With urgent, life-saving surgery now behind him and that offending digit removed, Bear’s new tomorrow has begun—the one we whispered into his furry ear the day he arrived.

And as his body swells with love and good nutrition and his coat begins to shine, Bear stands tall as living proof:

That animals are not their wounds.

Not their limp.

Not their years.

And not their sorrow.

They are magic made of flesh.

And in the right light, and with the right love, they are—just like us—always more than their skin.