Posey (Possession)
What Joy Looks Like Now

She bucks. She twirls. She kicks at the sky just because she can. There’s no purpose behind the motion except to feel alive—and Posey feels everything.

She’s round, dappled, and dazzling. A crimson queen with a streak of mischief and a muzzle always pointed toward the treat bucket. Carrots. Apples. Cantaloupe. Watermelon. Peppermints—Posey doesn’t discriminate. If it crunches or drips, she’s interested. She doesn’t wait for affection—she expects it. And she returns it, tenfold.

She’s one half of the red duo—the Crimson Queens. Posey and Touching My Toes, bonded in boldness and tenderness. They banter. They bicker. They share a rhythm. They keep each other close. Posey’s part of the Mighty Five, but she holds her own like she was born to lead. Which, in every sense, she was.

Visitors fall for her fast. Kids, especially. Posey shines during Read to the Rescues, where young voices stumble through their first stories, and she listens like every word matters. When they paint with her in our Canvas of Compassion, she leans into the brush, into the presence, into the moment. Posey is fully here. And fully herself.

But don’t let the laughter and lightness blind you to where she came from.

Because here’s the truth.

Posey was born on St. Patrick’s Day at Lane’s End Farm—3,300 acres of rolling green prestige in the heart of Kentucky’s elite breeding world. Her dam, Tomisue’s Delight, was a millionaire. Her uncle, Mineshaft, was Horse of the Year. Her buyer? Sheik Mohammed of Dubai. Her price tag? Two million dollars.

Posey raced twice under the legendary Julie Krone, then was removed from the track and placed into the broodmare machine. Seven foals. Seven years. One body. Flown to Europe. Inseminated. Delivered. Over and over. Her body became a business. Her worth measured in what she produced.

Then—she didn’t.

She lost a pregnancy, and with it, her value.

She was resold, pregnant, for $27,000. Then again, for less. Her name disappeared from headlines. Her care disappeared with it. She slipped through the cracks like so many others.

Until she hit the bottom.

Bloated from parasites. Ribs sharp against sagging skin. Half-blind. Traded for a mechanic’s bill. Her name was no longer Possession. She was just another lot number on her way to slaughter.

And still—no one from her past called. Not the Sheik. Not the breeders. Not the farms. They took what they wanted and left her behind.

But Posey? She didn’t ask for a miracle.

She became one.

We bought her freedom for $200.

She pressed her head into my chest the day she arrived. Not in fear. Not in panic. In something quieter. A question: is it safe now? I wrapped my arms around her and whispered, yes.

And Posey bloomed.

Her eyes still fade, but her light never does. Pleasant Pastures became her guide, her shadow, her steady. When he passed, Angie took the lead. Recalibrated the herd. Gave Posey to Toes—her Crimson twin—who now walks beside her, gently, like a promise.

Posey doesn’t ask for pity. She doesn’t live in the past.

But she does deserve to be seen.

Not for the price she fetched, or the blood she carries, or the foals she produced. For who she is now: Sassy. Sweet. Whole. Jubilant.

She wants a sponsor. A person to say, “She’s mine.” A partner. A champion. Someone who sees her, not as a shadow of what she was, but the blazing presence she is.

Sponsor Posey. Help her live every day in the safety she fought so hard to find. Not because of her past—but in spite of it.