Flights of Angels

You were a presence full of light upon this earth,
And I am a witness to your life and to its worth.

I don't know if I believe in rainbow bridges or pastures in the sky, but I believe in eternal peace for those who have felt great pain.

Galateo, the elderly horse of the previous post, lost his battle with arthritis this weekend. His hindquarters had become too stiff and weak and uncoordinated to carry his large frame. He almost fell yesterday on his way in from the paddock. He had started to suffer.

My mother called the vet, who came to our farm this afternoon and instantly agreed that it was time. He led Teo to a grassy spot next to the pine tree in front of our paddocks. The dreaded moment had still arrived too suddenly, even after months of steeling myself.

I could not watch Teo go. My mother, ever the stronger soul, watched for both of us. She said he fell gently, slowly, first to his knees and then to his side. Life left his body like a bird departing its perch. For the first time in a long time, he felt no pain.

Though I will always worry that Teo wondered where I'd gone in those last minutes, I am glad my mom insisted that my parting image of him be a better one. I spent our final day together cuddling him in his stall, stroking his face and neck, telling him how much I loved him. And even though he still showed his heart at the end, trying to escape the vet's grasp -- he never did like doctors, and he never, ever gave up -- he was already gone, in a way.

After he had passed, a strange calm washed over me, almost as if my body had released whatever pain it had absorbed from his. Even now, mere hours later, I find myself oddly peaceful and almost relieved. Perhaps it's numbness, or maybe even acceptance. I doubt I'll really know for some time.

What I do know is that whenever I think of Teo, the strong, proud, steadfast, talented, courageous competitor will always come to mind. I will remember our first competition at Indian Hills, where he swept every class we entered. I will remember my delight when he carried me to a 63.5% in my first Prix St. Georges and then earned me my USDF Silver Medal. I will remember the freestyle symposium in Raleigh, where he danced to swing music and captured the audience's and the panel's hearts. I will remember the elation of making the Region 2 NAYRC team, the long drive to Bromont, the agony and ecstasy of being held at the jog and then finally admitted -- how he willed his right hind, its arthritis then in its infancy, to reach just that extra inch farther -- and then collapsing in the arms of my teammates, who showered him with praise. I will remember our first Grand Prix and each one thereafter, and the unbelievable pride of earning our Gold Medal together. I will remember the joy he brought to my friends who rode him after I left for college. I will remember him trotting in his paddock and scratching my other horse's back over the gate. I will remember his nickers and whinnies and head-tosses and goofy looks.

Goodnight, sweet prince. You're free now, and you will always be my Bear.

The Coping Before the Coping

When you own an elderly horse, there comes a time when you realize that soon, it will be time.

("Time," of course, needs no explanation.)

You've watched his movement grow creakier over the years, and you've diligently soaked his hay cubes for him since his teeth wore too low to master dry forage, and you've clipped his progressively shaggier coat every dog-day season. You've seen him struggle with minor bouts of soreness, but he has always recovered fairly quickly. He has conquered Potomac fever and laminitis, both potentially fatal diseases, but it's the arthritis that will get him in the end. His flareups have become more frequent and more painful. This winter, like the last, will be hard on him, if he -- say it -- if he makes it through.

The thought of losing him already hurts beyond belief. No one has seriously discussed euthanasia yet -- he's still abundantly enjoying his somewhat slower life, still getting up and down without struggle, still managing competently -- but the topic has burrowed into the back of your mind, and heaven only knows when it will spring forth to steal your peace and your happiness. You try to prepare yourself, but you know your strength will only carry you so far, because all your life you've never not treated horses like family, and you've never lost one before. And you know it's going to wreck you.

But then, just as your toe prematurely dips into the vacuous void of grief's rabbit hole, a friend says something you need to hear: "He's still here." And she's right.

You watch him slowly but ably amble around his paddock, and you realize that appreciating the present trumps dreading the future. You focus on his already long, successful life, and your time together, nine years full of competitive triumphs and indelible memories and irrepressible goofiness -- and most of all great love and respect. You think of all he's taught you and all you still have to learn from him. You put on your happy music, your Grizzly Bear and your Dirty Projectors, and you keep up with your chores, and you do everything in your power to keep him happy and comfortable for as long as you can. And every so often, you glance out the window to watch him grazing contentedly. The time will come someday, but for now, he's still here.

You mean I can't move to Seattle? Damn.

Two weeks later, I am still in love with this city.