Letting Go

    A few days ago a friend passed away.  Her family is devastated, and I have lost another contemporary friend.  I've reached the age when people of my years are dying.  Those of us left behind grieve.  I am grieving.  We do.  Grief is part of reaching old age.  It is a sign that we have been loved, and that we love in return.

    I am reminded of when we lose an animal companion.  Dogs especially give us unconditional love.

    So do many horses.

    And over the last 60 years, I have lost many equine companions - most through illnesses brought on by old age.  I had a veterinarian say that I have the biggest collection of senior horses on our plateau. He confided to one of my friends, another horse owner who has since passed away, that he almost dreaded a phone call from me because it often meant he would have to put an animal down, not because I didn't give good care, but because most of my animals were/are older.

    Yes, I've had to let many, many go.  I remember those horses.  They haunt me.

    Most recently we had to let a draft horse cross the Rainbow Bridge.  Bonnie hadn't been in our herd for long; she was a senior when she came into our care.  She was the size of a small elephant, and her breeding could have been anything from Percheron to Belgian, although she resembled a Suffolk Punch.  Bonnie easily weighted a ton - a ton of love.  She spent her last years as a pasture ornament, and as a companion to the Quarter Pony, Shilo.  She suffered from a neurological problem, not too uncommon for draft animals.  She was losing control of her hind quarters.  Letting her leave this world was merciful, but I still wept.  Every time I walked into the barn she would call from one of the open stalls.  I still hear her, if only in my imagination.

    Mac was another draft who lost control of his hind quarters.  In his case, it was a slow decline, until the day he couldn't get up.  He came to us, already a Western Washington pulling champion.  I made him, a Shire, into a competitive dressage mount, and he carried me for years.  He flourished.  We had a tight bond, although he shared his love with everyone.  The day we let him cross the Rainbow Bridge was devastating.

    In the beginning days of Friendly Horse Acres, Jodee and Splash came to us as a set.  Jodee was a retired barrel racing champion.  Splash was an unrelated foal, although we purchased both horses from the same farm.  Jodee was a treasure.  Anyone could ride her, and she obviously knew the experience of her rider.  I remember the days she decided school was out for me.  I had been keeping her speed to a controlled walk or trot, with the occasional brief canter. That day she decided I was ready for a full gallop along a country road.  Clearly, she knew she didn't have to baby me anymore.  She didn't.  I loved it.  Everyone loved her.  She developed cancer, and our veterinarian struggled to keep her well, but at age 32, we had to let her go.

    Splash, too, would live to be about 32, but for her life was quieter.  From the beginning she had hip problems.  She could carry a rider, but only on a good day.  She became a decent carriage horse, though.  I always referred to her as "my" horse, even when we had 21 equines on the property.  In her case, her heart failed her.  She did not die alone.  She was surrounded by eight human mourners as we said goodbye.

    Splash

 Her little companion, Donny, a Miniature Horse gelding, was by her, too.  He mourned with us, and insisted he stay by her body until it was picked up.  It took him days to resume eating properly.  

    Donny would remain with us for more years as a driving and riding pony.  He also performed as a therapy horse.  I have vivid memories of him trying to keep his footing on the polished tiles of nursing homes. Originally, he had been our stallion for a small herd of Miniature Horses, but his most important contribution to the world was as a therapy horse - for humans, as well as other horses.

    Donny's death pushed me into a depression.  All of my horses have been hard to lose, but Donny hit me with an extra impact.  I was alone with him, in the barn, when he went.  That loss was hard, hard, hard.

     Donny

So many horses gone.  I could (and probably will in the future) fill pages of stories about them, knowing that as many as I write, I will forget one or more of them.  That is, until I lie down to sleep.  Then I will think, "How could I have forgotten Dolly or Peach or Bosley or Skeeter or William or Abby or Melissa or Shadow or Buddy or Chester or Manny or Flax or Cactus or Bramble or Devon or PeeChee or.... It's a long list, because I have lived a long time, and we got out of the business of breeding and selling because I could not part with them, and the only way I could be sure they were loved was to keep them close.

    However, I wouldn't trade having them in my life.  They gave me joy.  Each of them.  My world has been better for having them.  Love is like that.  I take delight in remembering Shadow trotting down the road, pulling a cart, oblivious to leaving me standing in the lane.  I see Buddy patiently letting children scramble up his legs to reach a stirrup.  I see Peach disappear under a cloud of people at a fair as she quietly accepted their pats.  And I see Abby flopping on my feet to keep me in place.

    Letting go is not easy, but it is the price we pay for accepting the love our horses and friends give.  I hope my friend's family remembers times of joy.  I will try to remember her that way, as I remember other friends who are gone, both two-legged and four.

    My brain plays tricks.  I will think of a friend, and get ready to phone, then realize a phone call will no longer reach them.

    I will step outside and expect to see a horse or pony who no longer is in the pasture or barn to greet me.  I cry, but that is all right because it is a physical reminder of the love they gave. That love lasts forever.