Touching My Toes
She Doesn’t Run—She Rises.

Toes doesn’t gallop. Not anymore. But don’t let that fool you. She still moves with the heart of a horse who once led at Belmont—head high, ears locked, eyes burning with purpose. Three legs carry her. The fourth drags like a war wound – proof of eveything she gave and everything they took. Yet she endures with quiet defiance. a relic from a world that demanded more than her body could give.

She’s massive—17 hands of sinewy chestnut strength and impossible softness. Gentle to her core. Kind in a way that makes your chest tighten. She loves to be brushed, presses into the contact like it’s holy. She plays with her herd even if she can’t chase them down the pasture. She bucks. She twirls. She dances inches off the earth, daring gravity to try her.

Found her frozen, starving, and wrecked, legs twisted, hooves grown long and cruel. Toes could barely stand, bones showing through a coat dulled by hunger. But she never stopped wanting to live. She leaned into care. She chose joy—even in pain.

She arrived with Angie, and found a new best friend in Posey. They’re impossible to separate—two flame-haired mares with matching markings and mirror spirits. They bicker like sisters. They move like one.

But Toes is fragile. Every day with her is a borrowed gift. Her legs have limits. Her history has left its mark. She gets Legend, Adequan, Bemer therapy—whatever it takes. We don’t know how much time we have. We only know we’ll fight for every second.

Because here’s the reality.

Toes earned $244,905 on the track. Another $50,000 in breeder and stallion awards. Raced 27 times. Ran her heart out. Broke down at Belmont under the whip of Jose Lezcano, trying to finish a race her body couldn’t survive. Her left front leg collapsed past the wire. The claim on her voided. The damage wasn’t.

They sent her to breed anyway. Forced a pregnancy into that broken frame. She gave birth. The foal disappeared. No one knows where.

And then they left her.

In February 2019, we found her in hell. Clermont Farm—where the corpses of dead thoroughbreds lay frozen beside a manure pit. She was barely upright. Her guardian, Angie, beside her. Both starved. Both discarded by a billion-dollar industry that calls itself a sport.

Touching My Toes—once celebrated, photographed, cheered—reduced to a number in a field of the forgotten.

But she’s still here.

And now, she needs a sponsor. Not a savior. A partner. Someone who sees her not as a broken body, but as a full spirit. Someone who knows that running isn’t the only kind of strength.

Sponsor Toes. Let her know she’s loved now. Not for what she once did. But for who she is—gentle, strong, and still rising.