Zorro

Little Bit Herd

Zorro’s Story — In His Own Words

I was born on a quiet May morning in 2003, on a forested island where the air always smelled of cedar and salt. They called me Zorro of Narnia, which felt like a big name for a small brown dun colt, but I grew into it. My sire Ronaldo gave me my good looks, my dam Unna gave me my soft eye, and the Narnia Fjord Horses gave me my start in a world that was gentle and green.

I remember the day two humans came to see me, Jessica and Jenny. They watched me trot, canter, and ground drive, and I could tell they liked how evenly my feet touched the earth. But what they really noticed was that I liked them. I’ve always liked humans. They’re funny, expressive creatures, and they appreciate a good nicker.

When I arrived at Little Bit in early 2007, I was still young, still fuzzy, still learning. They didn’t rush me. They let me grow into my body and my mind, especially my good friend Kelly, who helped me learn so much. I think that patience shaped everything that came after. By the time I stepped into my first therapy session, I knew exactly who I wanted to be: a steady back, a warm presence, a partner.

Over the years, I carried thousands of riders—some fragile, some fierce, some who barely spoke, and some who spoke enough for both of us. I learned to read the quiet ones especially well. If someone was anxious, I breathed slower. If someone was tired, I softened my steps. If someone was joyful, well… sometimes I added a little extra spring, just for them.

Outside of client work, I could be a different version of me! I could gallop like the wind, buck like a colt on spring grass, and play enthusiastically… sometimes too enthusiastically for some of my herd mates’ preferences. I never understood why some horses didn’t want to play… it’s so fun! Ronan did though. He was my buddy for bite face, naps, running our paddocks, and shouting loud for food! One night, long after dark, a familiar scent drifted into the barn. My sister Zoey. I hadn’t seen her since we were three. I called out before I even saw her. Family is family, even after years apart.

I loved my people, too, and there were so many of them: my clients, handlers, instructors, therapists, volunteers, and my care team; they had food, looked after me when I didn’t feel well, and came running with me on the track. They called me a teddy bear, which I took as a great compliment. I tried to be kind every day of my life. Even with the occasional buck. Those were… artistic choices.

As I grew older, my body needed more care. I had special food to keep my energy up, I loved to meet people, and I could still work—happily, proudly. In my final week at work, I carried seven riders. Seven moments of connection. Seven chances to help someone feel stronger, braver, calmer.

When my time came in August 2025, I wasn’t alone. Jenny was there, steady as ever, and Dr. King, who had cared for me so long. I felt safe. I felt loved. I felt like myself.

And then something remarkable happened.

In March 2026, after I had already crossed the meadow that lies beyond, I was named the American Hippotherapy Association’s Horse of the Year. A great honor, they tell me. But what mattered most was this: it meant you were still thinking of me. Still remembering. Still feeling the imprint of my hoofbeats in your lives.

I may no longer walk beside you, but I am not gone. Horses know when they are loved. We know when we are honored. And I know—truly—that I am still with you.

If I could speak to the humans I served, I’d tell them this:

You gave my life purpose.

You trusted me.

You laughed with me.

You let me help you.

And that is all a horse like me ever wants.

Thank you for letting me be Zorro.

Find more 50th anniversary stories HERE.