I am not sure who was more tired that day, him or me. It was October 8, 2007, the longest weekend of my life, and somehow, I remember it ending all too soon. As I opened his stall I was amazed at how we had transformed it into a private hospital room, cobwebs hung from the ceiling along with what seemed like a hundred different IV lines. My patient was standing in the middle of it all looking ever so stoic. As I approached with his hourly dose of meds, he let out a long and cavernous sigh. Here we go again I said to him apologetically. I checked the IV lines for air bubbles; all clear. I flushed the line with saline and froze before I could do anymore. I looked in his eyes for any sign of life. Nothing. I put down the meds, closed the IV lines and stood in front of him.
He had been sick for a while, and I knew that this moment would inevitably come. But still, I could not believe it, I didn’t want to believe it. Patches was my first horse. I spent the last 18 years of my life with him. When I moved to KY ten years ago, he was all that I brought with me. I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to be here all by myself. Most of all, I did not want to have to make the decision to end his life. Come on, I begged, just get better already. I had been camped out in the barn for the weekend. His grain still occupied his feed tub, and his hay was still stacked in the corner. His whole life he was what you would call an “easy keeper”, big and round, especially these last eight years or so since he went into retirement. He loved to eat. He would eat anything. One time I found him lying on the ground under an apple tree. He ate so many apples he got sick, and the vet had to come. When he would eat, he attacked his feed tub. Ears pinned he would violently grab a mouthful of grain, along with the entire bottom of the tub, irritated that it was not bottomless. Now, I couldn’t get him to eat. He was not big and round. For the first time I could see his ribs and up until this point, withers were nonexistent.
I remember having the worst headache. I remember pacing around the stall. I remember taking out his groom box and grooming him, amazed at how dry and course his coat was. I pinched his skin, and it stayed in the pinched position. The skin on his chest was sagging and I kept tugging at it and smoothing it out trying to make it look like it used to; tight and muscular, hydrated. As I worked my way towards the middle of his body, I was careful not to brush too hard over his ribs and backbone. His rear-end abruptly dropped off and so I worked on his tail for almost an hour. It was still so beautiful. The top part was white, and the bottom part was black, and the two colors merged in the middle until they both met the ground. It was on this tail that I first learned how to French-braid. I braided his tail for the last time. When I returned to the front part of him, I began to brush his mane. It too was black and white, the only difference being that the top part was black, and the bottom part was white. I think God hand painted him. His favorite part of the grooming process was having his mane brushed out. On this day I took my time because I wanted to remember every single strand. He slowly turned his head and watched me as he always did.
The soft hum of the fan stifled my frequent and uncontrollable sobs. Burying my face in his mane I wanted so badly to go back to those untailored days of riding aimlessly through the woods and lounging in some far away field while he grazed beside me. Unlike now, time didn’t seem to exist, and things just went on and on. Or did it? Was all that a dream? I couldn’t figure out how we went from that to this. Losing him meant losing my youth. He held that for me and eighteen years later I could still stand in his stall and be fourteen. Draping myself over his bony body brought back the reality of the situation; I was no longer fourteen and he would never again be able to graze as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
I walked out of his stall and began to make the necessary arrangements. First, I called the owner of the barn and told him it was time. Together we walked the property until I found a place that he could rest. This spot was towards the back of the farm, a small corner of a quiet field whose grass grew tall and for the most part remained un-groomed. Behind him he would have an unoccupied field, beside him, he would have the company of his friends if they chose to make the journey up the hill for a visit, and in front of him, he would have a view of the farm. Here at this spot, you could sit and hear nothing but the wind, and if you sat down, see nothing but the grass swaying in unison to the whistling of the wind. And every now and then, from across the field, you could hear the untamed cry of the white Arabian stallion that lived next door.
As I walked back to the barn, I heard the backhoe start up and I suddenly went deaf. Next, I called the surgeon at the clinic. With authority I began to explain that I did not think it necessary to bring him back for more tests because he’s too tired. My authoritative voice became weak and childlike as I tried to get the words out, “I would like to put him down now’. I could not help myself as I begged her for another alternative, for one little hope of something positive to this otherwise dreadful situation. A cluster of professional terms came from her mouth and filled my ear until it was too much for me to take. Didn’t she realize I wanted a humane, direct answer? I yelled at her, “What would you do if he were your horse”? Sudden silence followed by faint crying followed by, “I would do exactly what you are about to do”. That was it, it was coming full circle and the end became frighteningly close.
I went back to the stall to check on Patches whose door I had left open on purpose just to see if he would walk out. I slowly began to undo the braids that I had labored over earlier. Everything blended together in a blur of uncertainty. Memories going as fast as they came, doubt and certainty compounded, and like a child, I hung onto him as if he were my life jacket in this sea of sadness. All too quickly I heard the gravel from the drive make way for the vet. Annoyed he was on time I dried my tears and waited for him to come in. As a last-ditch effort, he listened to his heart, his breathing; we even took his temperature. He shook his head no and I knew it was over. He asked me if I wanted to braid a piece of his mane or tail and keep it. Mortified I told him no, that wasn’t mine to take. “Alright then, I will meet you at the top of the hill”.
With shaky legs, the two of us began our journey out of the barn and up to the hill. I wondered what he would do when he saw the backhoe and the empty hole. I told myself that if refused to walk on or if he was afraid in any way, I would march him right back down to his stall and I would try again to make him better. Reaching the top of the hill, he stopped, perked his ears forward and stared at the scene and the people waiting for us. For a split second I felt hope, I laughed at all who said I had to end this for him. But that was short lived when he dropped his head and began to walk forward towards his fate. When we reached our destination, my eyes looked down at the deep empty hole that waited to be occupied. I looked at everything but my horse. The vet began to explain he would first administer a sedative and so on and so on. I couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in my ears. I was supposed to stay back in case he fell too hard, I was supposed to just stand there and watch all of this, but I couldn’t. I turned my back because I could not bare to watch the life leave his eyes. I concentrated on the leaves on the trees, and I marveled at their changing colors. I wondered if I stared hard enough if I could see them change. I listened to the whistle of the wind, and I tried to look for that white Arabian stallion in the next field over. The whole time my body shook uncontrollably, and the tears ran down my face, my neck, and my chest. I was so wet and cold and time stood still.
It was over and when I turned around my beautiful friend was a lifeless cavity of nothingness. I asked to be alone for a while not caring that the equipment operator was baking on top of his backhoe. I sat down in front of him and stared into his eyes, in awe of the fact that there was nothing there. I tried to close his lids but couldn’t, so I held them shut. I touched his face and put my hand in front of his nose in hopes that I would feel a warm and reassuring breath that this really was a bad dream. I got up and moved around him. He was so small without life. I sat down behind him and for the last time, I draped myself over his back. Running my fingers through his mane, the two of us returned to those days of wondering aimlessly through the woods without a care in the world. Once again, I was fourteen, and he was full of life.
Journal Without Borders 
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