Two Years

It's been two years since I last saw my boy living and breathing.  Granted, it wasn't much left of a life, and I wish our good-bye had been something so much sweeter.  But we were together, where we always ended up.

Moe and I at a schooling show, Hoffman Farms 1995ish

Today I celebrated Moe's memory by spending the evening with his two remaining buddies, Trinity and Fansi.  It's what he would have wanted, for me to be happy with his friends, with the sun warming our skin and the breeze kissing our cheeks.  I even snuck Fansi a few extra treats in his honor, just because he would've been the first one pick-pocketing me for his share.

Wherever you are, Moe, I hope you know how much I'm missing you and that my heart's breaking all over again as I write this.  Peace and love, sweet boy.

Trinity and her new bonnet.  She's thrilled.

Action shot with Trin.

Sunset ride on Fansi.  She is skeptical of the shutter sound on the phone.

Life Keeps Going On. 

Right Away, Great Captain!

I'm guilty of turning on an album and leaving it on repeat for days.  Months, even.  My husband hates this about me because he and I tend to have very opposite tastes in music (him:  Anything Country.  Me:  Florence + the Machine, which is totally a genre, by the way!).  Though it's not working at the moment, we had an iPod jack in our room where we could plug in our iPods or phones and play our music over speakers in the ceiling or on the porch.

At some point while Moe was sick, I turned on Right Away, Great Captain and left it on.  I remember walking away from  his still-warm but lifeless body on the grass and wandering back to the house wondering what could possibly be left without him.  The only thing to do was crawl into bed in the middle of a sunny day and cry.  Right Away, Great Captain crooned me to sleep on that horrible, beautiful day.  I let it play on in the days to follow because it held Moe and I together, this thread of mournful music.

Tonight I'm getting ready to say good-bye to one of my characters and I don't want to because it's like letting my boy slip through my fingers again.  My heart hurts and it feels right to play Right Away, Great Captain! again to pull myself back into the grief.  

It's no more than two lines into the first song before I can see him stumbling and feel his slick neck against my cheek.  The curl of dread tightens in my belly as I watch the vet check his pupils and slowed breathing over and over and over until he is satisfied and I know it's done.  I'm broken, with pieces that will never go back together quite right.

Sixteen months and it surprises me how sharp the pain still is and how little it takes to bring me back to that good-bye.  That is the power and wonder of art.

Oh.  How will I ever do this?

Joy

Do you know joy?  I do.

I hear it in the giggle of the girl bouncing along with her pony's trot.

Do you know joy?  I do.

I see it in the grin of the man whose legs cannot move him, but his horse can.

Do you know joy?  I do.

I feel it in the happy step of an animal connecting with their human.

Do you know joy?  You should.

The Problem

Liam

When I finally felt steady enough to rejoin Alfie, he'd moved on to replacing a broken fence board in one of the paddocks.  He didn't say a word about my breakdown, and I’m thankful for it.  I helped him in silence, holding the plank steady as he secured it to the fence post with a hammer and several nails.  Alfie was getting on in years, he shouldn’t be doing this work on his own.  

He took a breather after the next board was up, and stared off towards the few horses still living here.  

“Tell me about the horses, Alf.  It’s nice to see you, but they’re why I’m here.”

Alfie swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then gave a short nod.  “I hated to bring you back, y’know, but with Rowan out of the picture, I didn’t know who to ask.  Besides, you always were better with the horses than him.  He’s got a wicked temper, that one.”

“That he does.”  I agreed.   

We walked down the fence row until we stood in front of one of the few occupied enclosures.  “We’ve got six horses still here, but no one with any horse sense at all wants to help with them, especially the one mare in particular.”  I turned my head in the direction he's looking, toward the rear of the paddock to our right.  When she noticed us watching, the dark horse inside snapped her body into alert, her head high, eyes wide, and ears pricked.  Minus her sun-bleached coat from living outdoors, she was a nice-looking horse and would make someone a fine jumper.  The bone structure was all there, I could see it, but so was the fear.  The longer we stared, the more her terror echoed back.  Without taking her eyes or ears from us, she shrank back against the fence.

“That’s Tarantella.”

I scrunched up my face.  “Tarantula?  Like the spider?”  

“No, no.  Tarantella.  It’s a dance--Spanish, you know?”  Alfie hummed a tune and snapped his fingers as he crossed and uncrossed his arms a couple of times and shuffled his feet.  It looked like no dance I’d ever seen or probably would ever see again, thank heavens.  

With a shake of my head, I said, "You'd better stick to horses, Alf."  

He chuckled and stopped dancing, "Anyway, Tarantella... she was going by the name ‘Taran’, but some of the kids started on with calling her ‘Spider’, so you’re not so far off.”

Spider wasn't a friendly kind of nickname. I wasn't sure what to think about that.

I unlatched the gate to her paddock and walked inside.  Taran pinned herself up against the boards of the fence in response, but otherwise regarded me with curiosity.  “She looks all right,”  I said, fastening the gate closed behind me.  “So, then, what’s the problem?”

It happened then, quite literally, with the blink of an eye.  The dark horse studied me for all of three seconds before blinking her eye and charging after me.  There was no time to fumble with the gate--she’d be on me before I could have made it that far, anyway.  My only option was to climb the fence, and with any luck I would be faster than her.  With thundering hooves at my back, I launched myself at the fence and scrambled over.  Taran clamped her teeth around the heel of my boot before I could swing it over.  The old man was doubled over laughing at me dangling in a rather unpleasant position, with one leg in safety, the other in a wild horse’s mouth, and my crotch somewhere in the middle.  

“That,”  He sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes, “is our problem.”

The Creek

I couldn't tell you what it is about the forest that calms me.  Maybe it isn't the forest, at all, but the murmur of the river against the time-worn pebbles.  Or maybe the melody of the birds flitting from branch to bank, the cicadas joining in with their staccato rhythm.  Perhaps, even, the aroma of pine sap, damp earth, and moss drew me here--especially on days like today.  Mostly, I liked the quiet.  No one offered me advice or asked for my help out here.  No one spoke at all unless you counted the babble of the water, and I didn't.

Tally snorted and took a tentative step from the shore and into the edge of the creek.  I patted her shoulder as she took another swishing step, thankful for the distraction. I'd fought so hard to keep him from leaving, but, in the end, none of it mattered.

One Year

In the cool of the evening I spent a few moments loving on and wandering around with my mare, not asking her for more than either of us could give.  Today I needed to be sure she was happy being with me, not burdened by my presence.  I gave her extra scratches under her chin and on her forehead, and perhaps a few more treats than she needed.

I put aside my checklist of things to accomplish and took a deep breath, remembering when things were as simple as enjoying our time together.  Moe would have wanted that, I think--and a few extra treats.

Miss you so very much, Moe.  I cannot believe it's been one whole year without you.  Nothing about me has been the same without you here.

For My Husband

"Wrong lead, Gina!" I called out over my shoulder to the rider on the bay.  He used to be a nice horse.  Heck, they'd all been nice horses.

"I know!"  She huffed in return, waiting until they had landed after the oxer and lurched into a trot.  "We can't do it any other way.  Charlie's about to drop a leg."

There was that feeling in my stomach again, the mixture of pity and sadness each time we lost one.  I'd had that feeling a lot lately as, one by one, The Change claimed its next victim.

On the Mend

For those of you who may have missed it, my horse is feeling better.  The antibiotics seem to have helped, and after two days her fever was gone.  The vet checked up on her this morning and gave her a second shot of antibiotics, but he kind of shrugged his shoulders as to the cause of all of her worries.  They drew blood initially, which I could ask them to run, but at another $100, I'm not sure it matters as long as she is improving.

He gave me the green light to start her back into light work this weekend.  There's not much to say other than I am happy.  :-)

She's Got a Fever, and the Only Cure Is More Cowbell....

Yesterday I walked down to the barn to ride...  Not unusual for me, as I ride most days.  It was colder than it should be in May, though, so the part of me wanting to ride battled the part of me wanting to crawl under a blanket or six.  The sun did peek its head out from behind the clouds, thankfully, and my ride turned out warmer than expected.

The plan for the day was that I would ride and get cleaned up for a Mother's Day dinner with a couple of my siblings and the Mama.  As I walked through the pasture toward the barn, I noticed my two mares, Trinity and Fansi, standing side-by-side with their rears pointed toward the fence row.  Trinity, the alpha of our herd, stood with her head drooped low, her nose a handful of inches from the ground.  When she noticed me walking past them, she raised her head to peer over Fansi's neck.  Sensing no threat, she let her head hang once again.  It struck me as a little odd, but I brushed the thought aside and caught Ellie, the new pony.

After riding Ellie, I had half an hour left before I needed to head up to the house to hose myself off.  I glanced over at Trinity, now snoozing flat on her side out in the back of the pasture, and grabbed a bareback pad from the tack room.  By the time I walked back out of the barn and headed toward her, clouds had rolled back in place, veiling the light.  Trinity continued stretching out in the grass.  I knew she was alive because her ear flicked and rotated in the breeze, but it comforted me very little.  Something was wrong.

She was on her feet before I could reach her.  I fed her a treat, which she weakly mashed in her teeth and then let fall to the grass in crumbles.  I hadn't brought a halter or lead rope to the pasture with me, so I walked back toward the barn to get them.  Before I was 10 yards away, she lowered herself to her knees and laid back down.  Something was very wrong.

Like I said earlier, my mare is the alpha of the herd, and she takes her job very seriously.  It is her responsibility to be on alert for threats to the safety of herself and the horses under her.  To lay down with me so near made her vulnerable--literally a sitting target.  My horse trusts me enough to realize I won't pounce on her and devour her innards, but in 10 years together, she has never allowed me to walk up to her while laying down.  Not only did she allow me to walk back up to her with a halter and lead, but she let me put on her halter, and then I had to pull her onto her feet.  Something was very, very wrong.

Once I coaxed her to standing, we went into the fenced area we use for a riding area and I walked her around.  It was something I could never do with Moe when he fell ill--he was too far gone by the time I found him to keep him on his feet and walking.  Determined not to let her slip down the same path,  I walked for a few minutes, then I checked her gums, listened for the gurgling of her gut, and, finally, took her temperature.  My thermometer read around 103.5.  A horse's normal temp should be close to ours, preferably under 99 degrees Fahrenheit.  103-bleeping-five.  Something was really wrong.

I called the vet, and, because it was the weekend, promptly received the answering service.  The vet on call was the vet who came out first when Moe colicked--not our usual, beloved vet--and we unanimously decided we didn't care for him one bit.  I made a few calls and finally secured another vet willing to come out to us despite not knowing a thing about us or our horses.  Then we walked.  And walked.  And walked some more.  Trinity didn't want to, and it was hard to blame her.  It was cold and windy, and the rain blew in our eyes as we trudged along.  She is a very energetic horse, usually ready to walk faster than my legs can keep up with.  Burning with fever, she plodded behind on a loose lead. If I had been strong enough, she would have rather I or Mr. Ohboy carried her instead.

The vet made good time, and soon he was running the gamut of tests--rectal exam, blood drawing, antibiotic injections, injection of fever-reducer, and nasogastric tubing with oil and electrolytes to help lubricate and rehydrate her.  His thermometer read 104.2.  I've never heard of a fever that high in a horse, no wonder she was acting all zombified and stuff.  Without running the bloodwork, something that can't be done until Monday if we choose to do so at all, we don't know what's wrong with her or if what we're doing will help.  The suspicion is that she caught a bug from one of the two new horses, though it also sounds a little bit like Potomac Horse Fever to me (she has been vaccinated, but research says it's not terribly effective against the many strains in existence).

The horses spent the night inside--unusual for us, but necessary because of Trinity's illness and the freezing cold and dampness.  Mr. Ohboy and I checked her temp again before midnight and she was at 101.5, which is still a fever, but not 104.2!

This morning she hadn't eaten much of her soaked hay and drank very little from her bucket, but there were a couple indications that her digestive system is functioning--at least a little bit.  Her fever was still present at 9 a.m., running right around 102 degrees Fahrenheit, so we gave her another shot of Banamine.  As I type this, she is grazing by herself in the riding arena.  

In a couple of days we will have our vet out again to follow-up and administer more antibiotics.  Our prayer is that she responds to treatment and recovers without incident.  My heart can't bear the thought of losing another horse so soon.  As we watch and wait, I am keeping a close eye on Fansi and taking her temp to make sure she is not the next in line for whatever this is.

Keep Trinity and my family in your thoughts and prayers.  It's true that she is just a horse, just an animal, and maybe not that important in the scheme of things...  But, to me, she is my sister, my daughter, my friend...  Family.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

I haven't blogged in weeks.  Maybe you noticed.  Maybe you didn't.  Maybe you never even knew I had a blog.  Maybe you never cared to know the random things that pass through my brain.  If you didn't care, then I guess you wouldn't be here reading this now, so nevermind that bit.

At any rate, I've not had a lot to say.  A lot happened in April, but the words kept to themselves, mostly.

I lost a sweet horse, Mariah, to a heart-breaking decision I didn't want to have to make.  Her weight was good through the winter, but her joints just seemed to give way.  We spent the afternoon before the vet's visit brushing her and stuffing her full of the treats she loved so much...  After I had to chase her back to my property when she turned tail and ran through the neighbor's hay field.  That burst of spunk caused me to second-guess myself up until the moment she walked away from the barn for good.  Really, there wasn't anything to second-guess.  Even with her halting gait, she nearly bowled me over to go through the gate for the last time, never to return.  My step-dad says I'm reading too much into it--she was just a horse, after all--but I think she knew her time had come.  She was ready to be whole again in some other place.

Two days after we said good-bye to Mariah I began what I assumed would be the long process of horse-hunting and test-rides.  That day we looked at two ponies and bought the second one, a grey draft pony named Ellie.  She reminds me a lot of the pony I had when I was a kid, another horse I loved and lost.  Thank goodness I can think of that pony and smile.  The wounds are still a bit too fresh from losing my Moe and Mariah nine months from each other.  Back to Ellie, though--she is talented and quick, so I've been working at slowing her down and getting her back in shape for the kids to ride.  I've been riding a lot, for me, at over two hours a day in the saddle.  I'm one tired muchacha, most days.

My step-dad decided the tack room in our barn was in need of a major overhaul, so they began that project around the time they purchased the grey pony.  Now instead of dust, cobwebs, and mouse droppings, we have wood paneling, fluorescent lighting, and linoleum.  There are cross-ties for three horses instead of only one.  It's super-fancy.  You know, I've been riding for the past 30+ years in squalor so I don't know how to behave in nice places.  I might have to let the mice and birds into the tack room to relieve themselves, for old time's sake.

Yesterday my sister also bought a horse, a bay Tennessee Walker gelding.  His name WAS Henry, but he has been renamed "Romeo".  Despite my mare's (Trinity) best attempts to scare the bejeebies out of him with her crazy front legs and ear-splitting squeal, he is not very concerned with the goings-on of our barn.

The reintroduction of my family to the barn has been difficult.  For decades it has been my safe haven, the place I go to escape everything.  One by one, the horses are being replaced.  Board by board, [beautiful] improvements erase the little bits that remain of my memories of horses past.  The air is laced with the conversations of others instead of the whisper of the breeze.  It is all changing.  The changes are not all unpleasant, but, to me, they are all related--directly or indirectly--to losing a loved one.  I'm still grieving.  Not with the intensity I did when I lost Moe, but it's still there.  I'm crying for all of them.  There's little emotional leeway for much else.

Things have been happening in my non-horsey life, too.  A while ago I entered a contest attempting to attract the interest of a literary agent.  My submission didn't make it past the slushpile readers whose job it was to wade through all of the entries for the agents.  At the conclusion of the contest we were given a second chance to submit a Twitter pitch so the agents could see what they'd missed.  My Twitter pitch received requests from one agent and a brand new publishing company.  The agent ended up passing once she read my query and first several pages, but the publishing company requested my full manuscript two weeks ago.  Last night as Mr. Ohboy and I walked back from feeding the horses, I checked my e-mail and found a message from the publisher saying they were interested in signing me.

This afternoon I talked with the woman who runs the company, firing off questions and concerns and sharing our mutual disdain for "50 Shades of Grey" for over an hour.  The premise of the company is promising:  Treating writers with respect, fostering community amongst the authors in this house, allowing authors as much control as possible, and a lot of other things that made me feel comfortable about possibly letting this company help me bring my stories to the world.  The biggest problem?  They are so new their first round of acquisitions isn't set to publish for another month or so.  They are a total unknown.  On one hand, it's flattering to be considered for this fledgling company, getting in on the ground floor, so to speak.  On the other hand, I worry that once things get moving they will discover that their nice ideals and flexibility aren't making them money and all of those "pros" will disappear.  What if they don't survive?  What if they take my reputation with them?  I'm not sure if any of that makes any sense, but I've been processing it all day long.

The next step is to lay my eyeballs on their contract and figure out if it makes any sense to me.  It won't.  It's completely written in legal-ese.  I barely speak redneck-tinged English.

And then I think of this publisher, someone who doesn't know me from anyone, who personally read my manuscript and saw something of value in it, and in me.  Enough that she'd be willing to take a chance by bringing me in to be part of the building effort for her company.  It's scary and humbling, all at the same time.

I've not signed anything or given a commitment of any kind because all I've had is a nice phone conversation with a stranger.  Maybe I will wake up tomorrow and this will all be a weird dream, but tonight I will smile remembering her compliments.  I don't get enough of those, do you?

Also on the writing front--In April, I participated in Camp NaNoWriMo.  My hopes had been to add 30k words to a project I've been working on, a Young Adult thriller tentatively named "In the Middle".  With everything else going on, I managed about 10k.  This big "miss" did give me time to think about the plot a little, so look for more happening with that story in the near future.

What else?  Oh, I have a new nephew!  He's adorable and I need to visit him.  Other than that, I haven't had time for much else.  What about you?  Anything big happening where you are?

Last Day On Earth

If it were my last day on earth I would dream under the stars.
I would lay down in the grass and let the sun warm my skin.
I would cherish each breath of air as it weaves through my hair.
I would sing along with the familiar melodies of the birds.

If it were my last day on earth I would lose my way in the trees.
I would splash and play in the dancing waters.
I would shift and slide amongst the soft grains of sand.
I would drench myself with the afternoon rain.

If it were my last day on earth I would wrap your arms around me.
I would bathe in the trickle of our falling tears.
I would wish you remember me fondly long after I go.
I would want you to know you made each day worth living.

When you think of me, with tears or laughter, know that I am thinking of you and sending love in the gentle ways I know how.

~~~

 Mariah, sweet girl, you deserve to be whole again.  Thank you for always being as kind as you looked.  Thank you for trusting me enough to be your vision and, sometimes, your protector.  We will miss your quiet spirit and the cautious way you would sneak up to me to get treats before any of the other horses could chase you away.  Give Moe a big, sloppy horse kiss for me, and run free together the way you never really could when you came to live with us.  

You are loved.  <3

~~~

Mariah galloped across the Rainbow Bridge today at 12:15pm. Rest in peace, Ry-Ry. </3

My Life In One Photo

Except that lady.  I have no clue who that lady is.

(Thanks Tim!)

Looking Over My Shoulder

2012.  I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go.  The truth is, I'm not.  A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost.  Yes, milestones work in reverse....  Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had.  The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed.  I can tell you, for me, it's true.  There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come.  The sadness means a part of him is still here.  Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me.  I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.

Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance.  For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually.  We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free.  Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me.  As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened.  Purpose.  Life.

And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.

For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place.  It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy.  Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice.  I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice.  I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.

2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself.  I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have  a silver lining.  But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.

May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all.  I think most of us could use that.

Snippet

“Yeah, I was totally robbed.”  A voice behind me sneered.  “Claire only won champion because of that stupid flat class.  Oh, and because she’s a Darling, obviously.”  

The sudden, crushing power of my grip on my boyfriend Liam’s hand caused him to glance over at me.  I didn’t turn to meet his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of even a twitch of response.  Instead, I riveted my gaze to the uneven surface of the path we were traveling towards our stabling area.  

She raised her voice, obviously wanting to be sure I heard.  “It’s so crazy what you can buy these days.”

Your new boobs, for one, I smirked.  If I hadn’t been representing my family’s riding stable, Hope Creek, at the horse show, I would have said it out loud.  Her reaction would have been worth the catfight that was sure to follow.

“But I guess I’d be winning all of my classes, too, if daddy dearest bought me any horse I wanted.”  The others giggled, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify them.  Celestine (though everyone on the circuit knew her as “Tini”) Lowenstein and her her stuck-up shadows Ariana Llewellyn and Maria Gaudio.

I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me at the sheer craziness of her statement.  Tini, of all people, was in no position to point fingers and accuse anyone else of being spoiled rotten.  She was practically the poster child for privileged children.  And, besides, I knew for a fact her horse, Sloan, cost more than most of the homes in my hometown.  I knew that because her daddy waltzed into my family’s place, Hope Creek Farm, and plunked down a small fortune--Sloan’s purchase price--without so much as batting an eye... but who was keeping score?

“Yeah, “ one of the other girls offered.  “Claire could be dead and Tally would still make her look amazing.”  The three of them giggled.

Even though it was meant to be an insult, I nodded my head in agreement.  Finally, they’d gotten something right.  My Thoroughbred mare, Tally, could make anyone look like they knew what they were doing.  Too bad for Tini and her henchwomen, I guess.  As long as Tally was around to make up for my atrocious riding skills, they would continue finishing behind me in the rankings.  

Before Tini could spout off anything else ridiculous or hateful, I steered Liam to the right, down the long row of temporary stalls that led to Hope Creek’s stabling area.  The three girls kept walking, but I could almost feel the burning from their demonic eyes on my back.

“What’s their problem?”  Liam asked when he was sure the girls were out of earshot.  The thickness of his Irish accent made him sound way more irritated than I knew he really was, and I found it completely adorable.

“There’s no problem.  That’s just Tini,”  I sighed, releasing my grip on Liam’s hand so I could recapture the wayward strands of sandy brown hair with a ponytail holder.  At least, I didn’t think there was a problem.  With a petty girl like Tini, it was hard to say.  The fact I was currently breathing the same air was probably enough reason for her to be ticked off.

Until last week, Tini and I didn’t need to worry about each other.  Last week I changed all of that by standing up for myself.  After 18 years of riding and working for my parents and their clients, I decided that it was time for me to compete and make a name for myself in the horse world.  It’s a funny thing about following your dreams--most people would rather you didn’t because it messes with theirs.  People are selfish.

****

Felt like sharing a little bit from the first draft of my second [untitled] book. It's rough because it hasn't yet been edited, so forgive its imperfection! Hope you enjoyed it! <3

Empty Stall

He's captive in this little box, tangled among all the little things that made me me.  Dew on the morning grass, wings to fly, easy laughter, innocence.  Where he has gone, my joy has followed.  Each day, I struggle to keep the lid shut tight, to hold too fiercely to something that has long since slipped away.  It's all changing--the light, the season, even me.  How can there be a spot of my heart that's left to split?

***

Tonight I fed the horses in the dark.  They were quiet, not hungry and frenzied as they usually are around dinnertime.  I found out that was because they'd already eaten dinner, so the hay I'd thrown out was a bonus feeding.  The sweet aroma of pine drifted to me, and I turned to see my mom had thrown some shavings in one of the stalls for the horses to enjoy.  The stall we'd kept locked since July 10th had been opened, an open invitation for the mares to come in and explore the straw bedding within.  That stall, that very straw was the last place my sweet boy laid his head before we put him down.  He groaned and stretched and closed his eyes almost happily, even though he was in unspeakable pain.  Even though minutes later he would stand, with my help, and be led from the barn for the very last time.

I never intended it to be a shrine to Moe.  It was a waste of straw to be used in the summer for my pasture-kept ladies.  I locked it up with a zip-tie that day, and there it's sat for all this time.  And, yet, a shrine is exactly what it became, in the end.  It was his stall, even though my horses don't have assigned stalls.  Every evening he would rush in there with a gruff nicker while I worked on scooping out his Equine Senior, so anxious to eat he would impatiently come back out of the stall and follow too closely behind me to make sure I was coming.  He'd been losing teeth in those last years, and gumming his dinner took forever, but I wish he was still here.... I'd let him take five times as long if he was just here again.  Soon, the straw will need to be removed, soiled and useless.  One more reminder he was here, that it all happened, will break down and disappear forever.

Tonight that open, empty stall peeled back the corner of the scab.  I know the wound will never fully heal, but I had hopes that, over time, it would become easier.  This is not easier.

He Is

He is...

Spindly legs.

They say he will learn to put each one in proper place as he grows.

They were wrong.



He is...

A velvet nose.

He is sniffing, touching, testing, mouthing all the world has to offer.

And even some things it does not.



He is...

The perfect heart

Child-like, forgiving, trusting, loyal to the final flicker of life.

And loyal even yet.


****

I have been looking at baby pictures of some friends and recent clients.  I am led to flip back through some of my older Facebook photos, where little Ohboy's age could be counted in weeks and months rather than years.  His smile is the same in those photos, only now it is deepened with words and experience.

It makes me wonder about my Moe-Moe.  I've never seen him as a foal, but I imagine him much the same:  Gangly and awkward, hungry and inquisitive.  The idea of my beloved guy as a beloved little guy brings happy tears to my eyes.  What a character I know he was.  These things seldom change, even with age.

Miss you, as always, Moe.  Where you are, a big piece of my heart has followed.

Not Forgotten

My dear human friend,

A door called death has closed between us for the moment.

But could a little thing like that

break the bond of love and understanding between us,

Who have been so close? Of course not. 

Having left behind the body which no longer serves me,

I can be with you always and everywhere;

On long delicious walks, at quiet times, and lively times,

Alone, among friends new and old. 

Let my excitement with life still brighten your days.

As long as there is a place in your heart which is the shape of me,

I will be with you.

One day you too will come through the door,

And we will be together in glorious ways we have yet to understand.
 

--Alexandra Day

Rollercoaster Days

I rode my horse this afternoon while waiting for Ohboys 2 and 3 to be dropped off by the school bus.  The bus driver won't let them off the bus unless she sees someone from our family, so I've taken to riding while I wait.  What other kid gets picked up from the bus via horse?

My horse has been amazing lately.  Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror.  I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes.  It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway.  I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup.  The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat.  He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count.  Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor.  She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.

When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch.  Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve.  I always ask him if he wants to ride.  Usually he says no, today he said yes.  While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle.  He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.

As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard.  Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house.  He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things.  I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard.  It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead.  His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn.  At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest.  My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was.  I stopped having workable solutions years ago.

I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words.  The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat.  He did!  Smiles abound!

When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished.  I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough.  He wanted something else.  I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room.  I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet.  He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.

Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room.  He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology.  Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.

Ohboy 2 had spelling homework.  He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time.  They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this.  Spare me the drama.

The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream.  Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return.  The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random.  I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life.  I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me.  He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.

This will all pass.  Someday I'll be missing this.  Riiiiight?

First

The sun had not quite peeked its head above the horizon, painting the edges of the trees, the barn, everything, with a hint of gold.  We were mostly alone,  save for the others who were turning out horses or tacking up--and my dad, who was documenting it all with a gigantic camcorder that looked like it had been swiped out of the back of a news van.

Nervously, I tried maneuvering Moe through the movements of the dressage test we'd been practicing all week.  We screeched to a halt where "X" might have been, had the wing of a jump standard not been hogging the space.  A pretentious salute, and off we bounced on our way over to "K", where we trotted a lop-sided circle.  Overnight, a storm had turned the arena into a soupy mess, dotted with pond-sized puddles.  Besides not wanting Moe to slip, I'd just bathed him and, for now, his legs were white.  He was more than happy not to get his feet wet, too.   All of this dodging of bodies of water and jumps made round circles hexagon-ish and straight lines squiggles.  Worse yet, I'd been forced to give up my beloved riding crop and learn how to ride wearing spurs instead.  

To up the difficulty a notch, out trudged one of the handful of trainers at the barn, a disheveled and quirky brunette, with her bay Arab gelding.  I thought it was impossible, but somehow she created just enough open space to lunge her horse near the center of the arena.

“Hey, look!” She bellowed, tipping her head in my direction as her dark horse spun around her, “it's 'desert donkeys' on parade!”

Ah, yes.  Desert donkeys.  Our horses were the only two Arabians in the group of horses entered to compete in the combined training event that day.  Not that there was anything wrong with that, except that there was everything wrong with that.  Our horses didn't move the same way the Thoroughbreds and Warmbloods did, and they weren't built to jump high and tight.  Not to mention that Moe had been mostly trained by myself, and I knew the other horses were show horses and been-there-done-that school mounts.  We were the longest of shots, but those were odds we were familiar with.

Too soon, the bell signaling my dressage test time jingled and the two of us recounted a week's worth of drilling.  Letters, transitions, circles, and changes of direction.  Near the end, I lost a stirrup during a canter circle and tried to pretend like I was totally cool with that (I wasn't).  The judge wasn't fooled, and let me know in my test notes that we'd looked a little stiff during that part.  Well, duh!

We had time to kill in between dressage and the cross-country phase, where we'd be in the farm's back pasture jumping rustic-looking jumps and teeny-tiny ditches.  I changed from my forest green hunt jacket and white blouse into something a little more sporty--a coral polo shirt I'd bought at a local horse show.  If I looked prepared for what was to come, it was a small miracle.  I was literally shaking in my boots.  

There was no trainer to give me any pointers as I set off to warm up over the single jumps in the open area preceding the cross-country start line.  My pace was wrong.  Moe was taking off before I was ready, leaving me playing catch-up somewhere in the air.  Or I was attempting to jump the jumps before Moe was ready, and....  it was a mess.  One ill-timed jump too many sent me off-kilter, dangling off the side of the saddle by a single rein and my left ring finger.  I landed on my feet, but knew something was wrong.  I'd broken my finger, no doubt about it.

Our cross-country trip was dismal.  We racked up refusals at nearly every obstacle, which surprised me as our lessons earlier in the week over the same jumps had been uneventful and confident.  Our refusals didn't disqualify us, but we were clearly no longer in contention, between time penalties and countless other deductions.  I'd stopped caring.  My finger was swelling inside of my glove.

Determined to finish, I shrugged back into my hunt jacket, and pasted on a smile for the final phase:  Stadium jumping.  In stadium, we'd be jumping obstacles we'd never jumped before, and trying to do it quickly and without plowing through them.  Face-to-face, those jumps loomed larger than Moe or I were used to, right around three feet high.  The first jump, a strange-looking intertwined contraption called a Swedish oxer, gave Moe reason for pause.  Literally.  It was, by far, the most intimidating jump we'd ever approached.  I couldn't even be mad at him for screeching up to it--I would have done the same thing, if I was in his hooves.  We circled around to approach again, and made it over.

Jump two seemed simple enough, a box with a single red rail.  The Red Rail of Doom turned out to be very, very scary.  Like, boogey-man scary.  So scary, in fact, we found ourselves disqualified from competition after two more refusals.  However, because it was a "fun event", we were allowed to continue the rest of the jumping course, with mixed success.  Moe nearly ran me into the standard of a jump with oddly-slanted jump rails, then proceeded to knock the whole thing down on attempt number two.  At the end of our round, there was polite clapping and murmurs.  Desert donkey on parade.  Nothin' to see here!

As quickly as I could manage, I tucked Moe away in his temporary stall for the night.  My finger was throbbing.  I needed medical attention, I was sure.

It was Sunday, and my father had come to see me at the event in between church services.  Fulfilling his show of support, he'd already headed back for the evening service, leaving my sister and her husband as my responsible parties, the lucky ones forced to chauffeur me up the road to the After-Hours Urgent Care.

The Urgent Care was quiet, with no trace of any of my fellow riders--because, apparently, they all knew what they were doing.  A nurse ushered the three of us back to a open room full of gurneys, then whisked a curtain around us, blocking our view of the beds all around.

"The doctor will be right with you."  She promised, half-heartedly.  Even she knew that she was probably lying.

Several minutes later, shuffling footsteps on the other side of the curtain indicated we had company.  The doctor was right with someone, after all, but he chose my new neighbor first.

"So, Mr. Smith....."  He began, loud enough for us to hear.  "How exactly does one cook turtle?"

A crackly but energetic voice replied with no hesitation, "Oh, you can make soup....  You can fricassee it...."

My new neighbor had a chunk of turtle lodged securely in his throat.  I bit down on my tongue to keep from laughing out loud as I met my brother-in-law's look of amusement.  Suddenly my problems didn't seem so large, but my eyes more than likely did.  All these years later, I struggle to remember the finer details of that day, the show, my injury--but we have never forgotten eavesdropping on Mr. Turtle Soup giving cooking pointers to the doctor.

Moe remembered it all, though.  After that event, each time we visited a certain riding trail that reminded him of the cross-country course, his ears would prick forward, and he would prance, ready to take his turn on course one more time.  And, wouldn't you know, he always came in first place.

Tumbling

I have never, ever seen a needle that enormous, and I'm around needles and IVs all the time.  He snorts as the injection pierces his sleek neck, the whites of his eyes brilliant despite how much sedation is running through his system.  It only takes a second, and his body begins its horrible, final downward spiral.   The veterinarian holds one end of his lead rope, motioning with his free hand that I should stay back.  Moe falls forward, catching his full weight on his nose, the same sweet, soft muzzle that was always so eager to search visitors for goodies.  Now his momentum doubles his neck painfully, nearly flipping himself over.  I yelp partly in anguish, partly in helplessness, knowing there is no bringing him back from here.  Ever.  And he is down, laying on his left side, his breathing deep.

Somehow I manage to choke out words, enough to ask if I can pet him as he passes.  The vet nods, and I wrap my arms around his neck, watching him through tears as his life beats away slowly, slowing, slower, to nothing.  Inches from my face, the vet is checking for a pulse, the dilation of his pupils, those last exhales, but I am lost, burying my tears in his mane.  He is gone, and I feel like maybe I have gone away with him.

~ ~

It's been a month, and contrary to what my blog posts may lead you to believe, most days I feel okay.  I function.  Today it was work as usual.  An interview.  Cleaning my grandparents' house so they don't have to.  Coming home to kids, who promptly inundate me with request upon request.  Working on formatting some business documents for a friend.

It hits me out of nowhere.  A lady who runs a horse rescue I am "friends" with on Facebook was being criticized for being overly-emotional because she was upset about a rescue horse that had to be euthanized.  I guess.  I don't really know what the story was because I couldn't stop picturing Moe tumbling and falling that last time.  As long as I live, I am sure I'll always be able to recall his last minutes.  I'm traumatized, in only the way you can be when you see someone you love so much slip away right in front of your eyes.  It was my choice to be there until the end.  They tried to send me away, to shield me from this pain, but I knew the pain of not being there with him would have traumatized me more.  There was no winning this one, only an endless array of options for losing.

When I see a picture of their horse's weird skin crud someone posts online, I remember the endless hours I doctored his legs.  Horse fungus shouldn't make me cry, but it does.


When I close my eyes to pray in the middle of church, he is there.  If he comes to me in prayer, my heart wants to believe it means something bigger.

I see that silly horse everywhere, and in everything because, for 19 years, that horse was with me for everything.  I talk about him a lot, and most of the time it doesn't make me break down in tears.... but sometimes I do.  And I write about him and about this sadness because I need to, probably more than any of you need to read about it.  Thank you for letting me do my thing and for not giving me a hard time about it--at least, not to my face.