Report on Spice

     I had planned to do another interview with Spice.  I enjoy the ritual of me asking questions, him flicking an ear, shifting his weight, offering the kind of answers only a pony can give.  But this time, he wasn't in the mood.  He turned away, not rudely, just quietly, the way an old friend might when he is too tired to talk.  His reluctance was the its own message.  My old man is slowing down.

    I knew it would happen eventually.  Horses in their thirties move differently, rest more, let the world pass through them instead of charging at it.  But knowing something and watching it unfold are two different things.  We have been together since 2002, when we both had more spark - when he trotted everywhere and I didn't yet feel the stiffness in my own joints.  We aged in parallel, but suddenly he seems to be pulling ahead.

    A few weeks ago, I looked out my kitchen window in the late afternoon and realized something was wrong.  Spice was colicking.  Even from a distance, I could see the restless cycle: lie down, get up, pace, lie down again.  A choreography of discomfort.

    My reaction was instinct.  I moved as fast as my nearly 80 year-old legs would move.

    The grass between the barns was damp and cool under my boots as I moved him there, hoping it would ease him.  I called the veterinarian with one hand while caressing him with the other.  I gave him electrolytes and TTouches.  I murmured to him.  I tried not to let my voice shake.

    Dr. S. arrived within the hour.  The first treatment didn't quite take.  She left, then returned.  The second treatment, plus an ultrasound, finally did what we needed.  Spice passed a massive turd, and gradually felt better.  Relief passed over us, though only one of us had produced the offending object.  It was well past midnight.

    When the crisis passed and the adrenaline drained, I stood beside him and felt the weight of the moment.  He was eating less.  Chewing slowly.  Something deeper was going on.

    I called the clinic again and scheduled a dental appointment.  Spice's regular vet, Dr. L. came out to see both him and Boudicca.  Spice's session was long.  Boudicca's was routine.  One of Spice's teeth had to be extracted.  I kept the tooth afterward.  It's an ugly, decayed-looking thing, and I sympathized with him more than I expected...I'd  had a recent extraction myself.  Aging is humbling for all species.

                                                   

                                                       Spice's offending tooth
 

    Dr. L. put Spice on a strict mash diet.  He has been on mash for years  (soaked beet pulp and alfalfa pellets) but ever since we started hiding his Cushings's pill in it, he has been suspicious.  He has always preferred alfalfa flakes.  He knows what he likes, and he has earned the right to have opinions.

    Keeping Spice away from alfalfa has been a challenge.  I put him on the short, moist grass between the barns to reduce the risk of choke.  But he still wants the good stuff, and when he sees Boudicca getting her half flake, he looks at me with a mixture of longing and indignation.

    So, yes, I admit it: he gets hay.  I choose only the leafy bits, never the stiff stems.  After so many years, I trust him.  He's a canny old man who knows his own needs.  I watch him select each mouthful with care, his soft nose sorting through the options.  So far, it's working.  He hasn't lost much weight, and although his coat is dense, it lacks the curls typical of a pony struggling with Cushing's.

    He did have a couple of bouts with horse lice.  (Horse lice are species specific.  Although they can get on people, and spread to other equines through our clothes and grooming tools, they can't live off the blood of people.)  I dusted both him and Boudicca thoroughly.  The powder works, but none of the equines enjoy getting sprinkled.  Spice tolerates it with the stoicism of someone who has endured worse indignities.

    Just a few years ago, Spice was a ball of energy.  Walking wasn't his preferred gait. He trotted or cantered everywhere.  He loved to jump.  When I let him out of his enclosure, I would lower the top two rails, but he didn't wait for the bottom rung to be removed.  He jumped over.  It was a signature move, a small act of rebellion and joy.  Now he scrambles over at a walk or waits for me to lower the rail.   

    He takes long naps.  His world has softened.

    And yet, when the light hits him right, I see the horse he was - the spark, the mischief, the pride.  Age doesn't erase those things; it just tucks them deeper inside.

    According to the Guinness World Records, the oldest living horse is 37.  Spice isn't registered, and his exact age can't be proved, but by my calculations he is 30 or 31.  I once imagined he might be a contender.  Now I know that is unlikely.

    As I age alongside him, I'm confronted with my own mortality.  I once though he would outlive me.  That belief was comforting in a strange way, as if handing him the final chapter of my story would spare me from writing his.

    Life rarely follows the script we draft for it. 

    Now my goal is simpler: to keep Spice comfortable, content, and as Spicey as possible.  I want to honor the years we've shared, and to walk with him, slowly, into whatever comes next.