Mid October 2003:
My Vacation started with an unexpected twist. The Pumpkin carving was well underway and from the truck window I could see shelved staging, reaching high into the air, already lined with thousands of Jack-o-Lanterns. Along long tables set up on the pavement at the main entrance to the park a group of volunteers were busily carving pumpkins. Others were hefting more pumpkins from crates and from the beds of trucks to keep the assembly line moving. Children ran across the leaf strewn grassy bank at the duck pond scattering a flock of pigeons. People were everywhere, biking and walking the trails and roadways under what was left of the bright fall foliage. I had forgotten about the pumpkin carving fundraiser. They were hoping to light more than 25,000 jack-o-lanterns at 4:00 that afternoon. They were raising money for Camp Sunshine to give children with terminal illnesses the gift of a week at summer camp. Maybe I would come back for the lighting, I thought. It was such a good cause and I was feeling very close to festive while contemplating the free week ahead, the first five days of it anyway. The three months of mental anguish and two phone calls making Fridays arrangements were behind me and I was trying to focus on more pleasant things.
Dan parked the truck at the curb near the rose garden, which was well mulched and ready for a Maine winter. I noticed a young couple in sweatshirts and jeans engaged in conversation lounging on a blanket in the morning sun. Two squirrels darted across the lawn at their feet chasing each other playfully. As I watched them frolic in the manicured grass, marbled with sunlight, then race up the trunk of a giant oak, I thought, “What a beautiful day to be alive.” I have always loved October—the colors, the weather, the absence of biting flies, the sound of the wind blowing dried leaves across the grass. I enjoy closing up the gardens. I especially love the ritual ‘putting away of the lawn mower’ while basking in the anticipation of a reprieve before snow removal begins. I adore long lazy trail rides and how crisp and cool the apples are, plucked fresh from the trees in the early morning. I always want it to last forever. This year though, my favorite month had a dark cloud looming on it’s horizon and I only wanted to be standing on the other side of it. Though I was still afraid to look in that direction.
Bintliff’s, the breakfast restaurant we are in the habit of driving 22 miles for about once a month is small and popular, a combination that makes for long waits. By 10:00 AM it is common to see the sidewalk lined with folks chatting over cups of coffee, brought out by the host when the wait is expected to be longer than forty minutes. On that particular day I saw no one on the sidewalk near the door as we got out of the truck. I glanced at my watch. It was well before ten o’clock. Good, I would be home in plenty of time to finish the chores I’d left undone and go for a trail ride before Mike arrived. Mike, my friend and co-worker, was stopping by to offer his advice as to whether we needed a new computer or just a hard drive. We were seated in no time and had ordered. We began casually discussing the usual things: Dan’s new business, his employee problems, and about how his landlord had not fixed the hole in the roof yet. Our conversation continued over Raspberry Almond pancakes and Korean Scrambled eggs and moved lazily into our—as of yet unorganized—plans to travel when and if our oldest child, Raychell, followed through with her plan to move out on her own in November. I became engrossed in the conversation, enjoying the way our voices mingled with the almost musical chatter of the couples around us, like lyrics in a song without a tune. The occasional clinking of plates being stacked on a tray were cymbal clashes in the drawn out chaotic melody that was slowly drowning my fear. The weight of Friday melted from between the wrinkles of my forehead, smoothing my skin and soothing my mind. As the worry dripped slowly from my shoulders I became light enough to float all the way through breakfast and nearly half way back to the little green meadow behind my house.
The droning hum of truck tires on pavement sped me back to the reality that awaited me at the end of the week. I realized I wasn’t going to enjoy any of my vacation. I had two horses to say goodbye to before Friday: Two old friends that had become a burden to me and a threat to themselves as they aged less than gracefully.
My mind went numb and my stomach churned when I thought on it very long. I sat there looking out the window at the world rushing by and saw only my dilemma. I was busy once again loading the tarnished silver trays that hung from an imaginary balance positioned like a yoke across my shoulders. I shifted the weight of my conscience left to right and back again. What if it was too soon? What if they would be fine this winter? What if something happened to Ranger? Would Kashmir get used to being alone and blind? What if banging his head on things is just a phase? Was I killing them just for my convenience? What if someone didn’t understand? What if, on the other side of Friday, I ended up with more guilt than I could bear? I reminded myself that I was not financially able to keep more than three horses. I’d proven that early in the season after picking up the lesson pony and not getting enough students to make it pay. I could have sold her and my thoroughbred in order to care for my aging geldings longer. But one of the biggest reasons I kept horses was for the shared experience of riding the wooded trails and the grassy orchard with others, especially those new to horses. I didn’t want to give that up. It was what I worked so hard for. Did that mean I was a horrible person? Some may think so. I decided my opinion was the one that mattered most—that and to be forgiven by two horses. My daughter Raychell trusted that I was doing what was right for them and myself. The Vet assured me that his office does not agree to perform euthanasia on a horse they felt still had quality of life.
I needed to stop torturing myself and get through the week. But they looked so happy and peaceful and well, grazing on the little bit of grass left in their paddock on that beautiful and sunny too warm for October morning.
Ranger was twenty eight and his back had hurt him for some time. He fell easily when cantering corners at pasture. He slipped in the mud too often just walking. He was grouchy and had been having trouble chewing. We couldn’t figure out why he tipped his head to the side while eating hay. I had tried for two years to place Kashmir as a companion. Everyone that responded to the adds I placed needed a horse they could ride on the weekends. I was going to send him to the retirement farm in Pennsylvania then suddenly he was going blind. He was telling me that he wanted to stay with me forever. Even if forever was mere months away? I did feel he knew that somehow. The weight in the balances shifted back to the right and I thought maybe it was going to be OK. I tried to be still and hold that thought.
Once home I went about finishing my chores. I grabbed a fork and wheelbarrow and headed into the paddock. Ranger was begging me for scratching as usual. He knew he could tease me into leaving my work to become his personal scratching post with minimal effort. He would intrude on whatever I was doing, positioning himself so that his itchy spot was directly in from of me. I had to smile at his industriousness-even when I knew I should discipline him. That day it seemed his chest was in need of attention. I scratched him vigorously while he stretched his chin out and curled his upper lip in what I always assumed was his expression of euphoria. “Ranger, we have shared so much in the last ten years, I told him. I will miss you.”
I adopted him as an 18 year old. He had only six months (total) of training and riding on him--and that had happened when he was Six years old. He hadn’t done anything since. He gave me a lot of attitude when I first introduced him to life as a working horse. He was appalled that I expected him to wear a saddle, eat paste wormer, have his feet cleaned, walk forward with someone on his back—occasionally even away from the barn, and a host of other similarly outlandish tasks. He would literally wrinkle up his nose, paste his ears to his poll, and glare at me. I could hear him thinking, "Woman, I don't think so!" or "Go ahead, ask me one more time, make my day." I remember thinking, "I didn't know horses could make evil faces--boy, he's got more muscles in his face than I do!"
That seemed like forever ago as I stood there scratching his chest and remembering. He had quickly turned into a dear friend that I could trust with beginners on the trail, walk trot and eventually canter, for the next nine years. Ranger was the only one of my horses so far to figure out that apples grow on trees--Quarter horse, Thoroughbred, Draft, they all eat the ones on the ground and move on--Not Ranger, he'd reach up and pluck them off the branches. He'd stand on his hind legs to reach the high ones. It fascinated me and always made me smile to watch him. It amused my friend Tom too. I have a canning jar on my windowsill full of feathers and dried roses, that originally held some of Tom’s home made apple butter. The label says “Apples from the trees Butter.”
I didn’t know how to say goodbye. I had to stop and wipe tears away. As I dragged my shirtsleeve over my dusty face Ranger squatted to pee right there at my feet. He had never done that before. I watched in concerned surprise as he struggled to pee. Nothing was happening and he began to dance his hind legs around in a frenzied stagger, nearly crashing into me and falling down. He regained his footing after a few seconds, moved away ten feet or so and tried again, to no avail, performing the same drunken dance. He was obviously in serious pain. I dropped the fork and headed for the phone calling out to my husband as I ran.
The Vet was there in half an hour and first gave him a sedative before examining him rectally. She then inserted a catheter to help him express the urine that was causing him so much pain. She didn’t get a single drop. She twice tried longer tubing and twice got nothing. She said she could go to the office and get still longer tubing but that she felt if she hadn’t gotten a single drop from the length she had already used, it wasn’t likely to help. Exploratory surgery was the next step. She felt the prognosis would not be good. Her suspicion was that something had been going on with Ranger for some time and was likely the cause of his soreness under saddle, his falling, his change of mood, and ultimately his inability to express urine. Tumor maybe? something easily remedied and he be better than before? She seemed doubtful-concidering his age and overall health. She conferred with the senior Veterinarian at Maine Equine Associates over the phone. He agreed. She hung up the phone and gently offered that it probably didn’t make sense to put Ranger or I through the ordeal of surgery as he was scheduled for euthanasia on Friday. She also told me that a horse could only live about twenty-four hours without urinating.
Thinking was not easy for me at that moment. We looked at each other a long moment. I raised my hand to cover my mouth and nodded. Ranger would be put to sleep today with Kashmir beside him.
By four o’clock it was done and the burial was arranged. Mr. Alexander would be there at seven AM Sunday with his back hoe to dig the hole and lay them to rest on the sunny slope behind their run-in shed.
Dr. Flaherty has such a great bedside manner. She said all the things I needed to hear—but briefly and nothing more. She touched my shoulder in passing and told me that they went faster than a lot of horses do. Which told her that they were in agreement. Then she quietly gathered her things and was gone. Sometime in the following week she sent me a lovely card.
I sat with them for a while feeling the enormity of a pain I couldn’t have been prepared for—never having been through this before—letting the shock and sorrow, quilt and regret, rise and flow in a torrent through me. The visual reality of this deed was the most shocking aspect. I tried to cope with that while I absorbed all of what had just happened and let it begin its journey through me. Just moments ago the power of life had filled so much space in that small paddock: feeling, breathing vibrant life, warm and trusting anything I asked—it had become so very still, empty, and growing cold.
“Stand still and receive this pink liquid death”. That is what I had asked and they had obeyed. “I don’t know how to make myself ready.” I quietly cried out when Dr. Flaherty asked me to tell her when I was ready. Kashmir went after Ranger. Lame and nearly blind but just as beautiful as the day I fell in love with him thirteen year ago on a sunny day much like that one. I pressed my face against his thick neck one last time and breathed deeply. No other horses hide had or would ever smell so sweet. I watched it all in slow motion through salty tears, my heart beating loudly in my ears. Breath caught in my throat as I gasped, trying to control my emotion until the deed was done. The air burned inside me, as I tried to hold my breath in the effort to stay calm, then slowly raged up through my body to escape in long jagged groans. The needle went into his neck and drew back blood. The blood mixed with the heavy pink liquid in the syringe and time halted as my brain recorded the image: The vivid pink, the crimson swirls, the end of the needle bulging under chestnut skin in a shaved patch of new winter growth. Panic filled me, yet I did not move my hand to dislodge that needle in the eternal second before the plunger reversed its direction. Every detail of that image was etched on the stonewalls of my memory and would last forever.
“I’ll miss you. I’m sorry,” I wailed into the soft hair of his lifeless shoulder. It seemed such an empty thing to say, so meaningless, so hollow, like the way I was beginning to feel after the flood of emotion had subsided.
“I did this thing because you are no longer useful to me Kashmir. Your limitations have become a burden to me. But I need to be forgiven in order to continue.” I didn’t know how I would ever feel OK with myself again. I spoke to him again not really sure his spirit was still there. “I need you to remember the ancient agreement that Sacred Dog made with the Great Spirit to do my bidding in exchange for the care I gave you.” I felt nothing but completely drained. Maybe Kashmir wanted just one more year to show me that he would have been ok with blindness even without Ranger to guide him around. I felt I would never know for sure and it would haunt me daily.
Dan came out after giving me some time alone with them. He had gone to the hardware store and gotten large blue tarps to cover them with. We covered them together in silence and in the fading afternoon light found rocks to hold down the corners. I brought out floodlights on a pole to shine on them through the night in hopes of keeping the predators away. I laid two of the dogs mats on top of them hoping that it would deter even the boldest coy-dog. It worked. I know because I sat up all night watching. The one lone hunter that ventured near did not leave the shelter of shadows at the edge of the paddock. It watched a few moments and then, perhaps after catching my scent or the scent of the dog mats, leapt off into the trees. At 6:00 AM I unfastened their halters and set them free.
Post script:
On October 31st, not many days after I buried my horses, Kashmir visited me in my dreams. He looked at me for a moment tossed his head and ran down the fence line free of lameness. He kicked up his heels about half way down the length of fence and I heard a ping as his hoof nicked the top wire. He ran into the woods and was gone. I woke the next morning knowing that I had to go mend the fence. I found not the top wire broken but the bottom one. That’s when I knew Kashmir didn’t break the fence, he was just showing me where it was broken and coiled in the grass waiting to ensnare the passing hoof of one of the herd mates he’d left behind. In that moment I felt the sweet kiss of forgiveness. Kashmir didn’t need me to remind him of the agreement. He had never forgotten it. My heart flew into the clouds as free and nearly as mended as my dear friend.
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