Difficult Goodbyes

Yesterday we had to euthanize our dear horse, Shorty.  He was a draft cross that came to us with his BFF Tango, about 10 years ago.  He was never anything fancy, but he was safe and reliable.  He didn’t care much for being groomed, but he tolerated it.  He didn’t care much for hugs, but he tolerated those as well.  Up in the saddle, though, he’d go anywhere you pointed his nose, those wide draft feet plodding steadily along.  

Shorty learned how to unlatch gates; he chewed on the wood posts when he was nervous and had a backwards penis.  He was wide and stocky with a gorgeous gray coat that turned black in the winter and silver in the summer.

He picked up and carried around his feed bucket like maybe he’ll get more for a pony trick.  Shorty is the gray tubby guy who once, when I walked him onto a trailer, proceeded to keep on walking right out the little hay door that was open.  His round belly got stuck halfway, and after some rocking and shimmying, he worked himself right on through, like he was just doing another one of his silly tricks for me.

A few months ago, Shorty’s old hips were too unsteady with the weight of a rider, so we stopped riding him.  But he still took the occasional romp around.  Recently, when it snowed, he galloped through the perfectly white back drop of the pasture in his red blanket, tail held high, like he was practicing for his Horse and Rider cover shoot.  He lost his buddy, Tango, about 2 years ago to colic.  Both these old guys made it past 30.  

Like with many of us in old age, Shorty had arthritis.  It affected his spinal cord, causing neurological damage.  His hind end became uncoordinated to the point that he could only walk in right circles and was at risk for falling and hurting himself or someone else.  There is no wheelchair for horses.  A horse that can’t stand has his days numbered.

Our family has been honored to spend the last 10 years of his life with him.  We are grateful for him.  

I told my daughters this morning, “Life has good parts and it has sad parts.  The thing about life is we get to feel all of the parts, and it’s important to feel the sad parts just as much as we feel the good parts.”

I don’t ever want to not hear his nicker calling for his morning breakfast as I walk up the driveway to meet him.  I don’t want to forget the feel of his soft nose, whiskers and warm breath as he snuffs my hands in greeting.  I don’t want to forget the smell of his winter coat on a cold day.  I love him.  Grumpy attitude and all.

He carried my daughters, each one of them, on his back safely and soundly.  He taught them what it is like to care for a 1200 lbs. animal, he showed them the true definition of gentle giant.  He loved a trail ride, ears forward, a bounce in his step and stealing bites of grass and branches the whole way.

He taught my daughters work ethic, what it is to care for an animal consistently day in and day out no matter what, rain or shine.  He taught them to read the body language of an animal, to pay attention to their behavior and demeanor.  He taught them to try again when they weren’t quite tall enough to reach the bridle over his ears.  He taught them how to use a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow, and the meaning of a job well done.

My heart is breaking over this loss.  He is such an important part of our family.  I don’t want to have to say goodbye, but no one lives forever.  

May he run free through green pastures with Tango at his side, knowing he was loved immensely. 

Goodbye, dear Shorty. Thank you to Dr. Cindy Kimbrell for caring for our horses and giving them the most comfortable and compassionate ending to their stories.