Adoption Policies
Thank you for considering the adoption of one of our rescues!
The adoption process:
The adoption process:
- Submit a completed adoption application.
- Call or email to arrange a visit to meet the horse(s).
- We will interview you on the phone and/or during your visit to assess your suitability as a home for one of our horses .
- Bear Valley Rescue reserves the right to refuse adoption to any applicant we feel may not be suitable.
- If you think you've found your 'horse-mate', take at least a day or two to finalize your decision - do not be hasty! You are making a big commitment.
- Pay the adoption fee or deposit and arrange delivery of your newest family member! Our standard adoption fee to $800. Horses that are saddle-broke are $1200, unless otherwise noted.
- Please keep us posted on how the horse is doing. We are always happy to hear about how our horses are doing in their new homes and would like to keep in touch with you.
- If at any time in the future you feel you are no longer able to care for the horse, or feel you need help with the horse, please contact us! We will help in any way we can, as we want to ensure a safe and healthy future for the life of any animal that comes into our care.
*NOTE - Our conditions of adoption have changed*
Conditions of Adoption:
*A) The Purchaser agrees to return the horse to Bear Valley Rescue Society (BVR) if they are unable to care for and/or keep the horse at any time in the future.
*B) Unless prior written consent is given by the Seller (BVR), mares are sold and adopted on the condition they not be bred.
*C) Colts are released on the condition they must be gelded as soon as possible and not be used for breeding.
*D) The horse is purchased AS IS and the Seller does not warrant the animal’s health, suitability or training.
*E) If the horse is found to be unfit or unsound, the Seller (BVR) will accept return of the horse and refund the amount paid.
Before You Adopt - Questions to ask yourself before you adopt a horse from Bear Valley Rescue:
'Rescue' Horses:
Our horses, while perhaps less expensive than other horses, may have issues: they may have been abused or neglected and need to learn to trust humans; they may have physical conditions that require particular care; they may not have had any handling or only minimal training. However, being a 'rescue' horse does not have to be a negative term. Any horse requires time, finances, and skill that you need to provide.
Commitment:
You must be able and willing to spend consistent, extensive time with your horse. Note, too, that a horse can live for over 30 years. Can you commit to care for your horse for its lifetime? What will you do with your horse if your circumstances change?
Expense:
The initial cost of your horse is only the beginning: you must be prepared to pay for tack, feed, boarding, vet care, worming, shots, farrier, hauling - it can add up to a LOT of money, and a lot of these costs are recurring, some several times in just one year.
Knowledge:
Even well-trained horses, of which 'rescues' are few, can be dangerous, especially if you do not have the skill and confidence to handle them. Consider carefully your desire to adopt an animal that has little experience or training.
No horse will leave Bear Valley Rescue unless paid for in full. We can hold a horse for you for up to 4 weeks upon receipt of a deposit of not less than 20%. If after 4 weeks the horse is not paid for in full and picked up/delivered, the horse will be relisted for sale and the deposit forfeited, unless prior arrangements are made with Bear Valley for boarding. Please remember that we are limited in space and funds, so that any horse staying on does restrict the number of horses we can save.
Unfortunately in order to be able to enforce our policies we restrict our adoptions to western Canada, namely British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan, unless special arrangements are made in advance.
TRACS (The Responsible Animal Care Society), through a generous grant from the Vancouver Foundation, has launched 'Horse Protection Initiatives', an adoption assistance program and euthanasia assistance program, in the hopes of helping to increase horse adoption through rescue societies and to assist owners in covering the cost of euthanasia of old or sick horses in order to keep them out of slaughter facilities. Please click here for more info.
Our horses, while perhaps less expensive than other horses, may have issues: they may have been abused or neglected and need to learn to trust humans; they may have physical conditions that require particular care; they may not have had any handling or only minimal training. However, being a 'rescue' horse does not have to be a negative term. Any horse requires time, finances, and skill that you need to provide.
Commitment:
You must be able and willing to spend consistent, extensive time with your horse. Note, too, that a horse can live for over 30 years. Can you commit to care for your horse for its lifetime? What will you do with your horse if your circumstances change?
Expense:
The initial cost of your horse is only the beginning: you must be prepared to pay for tack, feed, boarding, vet care, worming, shots, farrier, hauling - it can add up to a LOT of money, and a lot of these costs are recurring, some several times in just one year.
Knowledge:
Even well-trained horses, of which 'rescues' are few, can be dangerous, especially if you do not have the skill and confidence to handle them. Consider carefully your desire to adopt an animal that has little experience or training.
No horse will leave Bear Valley Rescue unless paid for in full. We can hold a horse for you for up to 4 weeks upon receipt of a deposit of not less than 20%. If after 4 weeks the horse is not paid for in full and picked up/delivered, the horse will be relisted for sale and the deposit forfeited, unless prior arrangements are made with Bear Valley for boarding. Please remember that we are limited in space and funds, so that any horse staying on does restrict the number of horses we can save.
Unfortunately in order to be able to enforce our policies we restrict our adoptions to western Canada, namely British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan, unless special arrangements are made in advance.
TRACS (The Responsible Animal Care Society), through a generous grant from the Vancouver Foundation, has launched 'Horse Protection Initiatives', an adoption assistance program and euthanasia assistance program, in the hopes of helping to increase horse adoption through rescue societies and to assist owners in covering the cost of euthanasia of old or sick horses in order to keep them out of slaughter facilities. Please click here for more info.
An animal should be a lifetime commitment!
How Could You?
Copyright Jim Willis 2001, all rights reserved
When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was 'bad', you'd shake your finger at me and ask 'How could you?' - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub.
My house-training took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.
She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."
As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.
I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.
Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.
I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"
They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.
I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.
She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"
Perhaps because she understood my dog-speak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.
May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.
Copyright Jim Willis 2001, all rights reserved
When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was 'bad', you'd shake your finger at me and ask 'How could you?' - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub.
My house-training took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.
She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."
As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.
I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.
Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.
I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"
They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.
I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.
She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"
Perhaps because she understood my dog-speak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.
May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.