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.