A sad ending...

I still miss my P.

It's been four and a half months, and I still miss him every day.  Sometimes it's a long slow ache, just sitting underneath my sternum, and sometimes it hits me like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of me.  I cry more than I ever used to - at anything sappy or ridiculously sad, it seems, not merely his memory.  I still cannot handle to thought of a dying horse - even a fictional one.  I've gone from feeling tough as nails to feeling like a weepy emotional girl, and I still don't know who this new girl is.

May 1, 2009.  The day I watched my best friend die.

It was the start of the spring finals period.  I was supposed to take my first exam that day.  Instead I got a text from my trainer.  "P is sick" is all it said.  I called her, worried.  We had already been through a bout of pigeon fever last fall, and then a nasty cold after that which seemed to stretch on forever.  What else could go wrong?  Why was my wonderful little horse, who was never sick a day in his life, all of a sudden constantly sick?  Michelle didn't know what was wrong.  He wasn't displaying the typical signs of colic - he wanted to lie down, but showed no signs of wanting to roll or kick at his belly.  She was waiting on the vet.  "Don't come out," she said.  "I'll call you when we know what's going on."

I was on my way to school, but changed direction and went to the barn.  I couldn't get that nagging thought out of my head - that I needed to go say goodbye.  I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous, it would be fine.  But I couldn't silence that voice, so I went.

I got to the barn and Piney was in the outdoor arena, with Michelle and our friend Paige.  He was lying down and didn't get up when I approached.  But when I got close enough to stand next to him and stroke his neck and face, he leaned his head against my leg and didn't move it.  I sat down next to him, in the dusty arena, and he put his nose on my leg, and just sighed.  My heart broke a little bit - my stoic boy.

The vet - not our usual vet, but her on-call replacement - still hadn't arrived.  Michelle had called her over two hours earlier.  "I'll go get my phone," I volunteered.  When I got up, Piney tried to get up as well.  He wanted to stay close to me.  I didn't go get my phone.  Instead I stayed with my brave little horse.

Eventually the vet arrived, did an exam, and used a stomach tube to relieve the pressure in his belly.  Her best guess was colic.  However, Piney didn't respond to any of the medication.  Even sedatives didn't seem to have much effect.  After much discussion, we elected to take him down to the vet hospital at OSU to see if they could do anything.  Michelle's husband arrived with the truck, we hooked up the trailer, and loaded Piney into it; then away we went to Corvallis.  My heart was in my throat the entire two-hour trip.

When we arrived at OSU, they took Piney straight back and began a battery of tests.  I stayed in the doorway watching, unable to take my eyes off the scene.  At some point I realized I was kneeling, tears streaming down my cheeks, my arms crossed over my stomach, like I was trying to hold everything together by the sheer force of my will alone.  I tried to stand up and found that I couldn't.  I had never been so terrified in my entire life.

The vet came to speak with us.  The doctors weren't sure what it was - their best guess was a splenic displacement, which came with a recommendation of surgery.  Michelle and I looked at each other - we didn't want to put Piney through surgery.  He was 25, and we knew the surgery would not be kind to him.  We also didn't know if he would make it through the recovery period.  Piney loved to work, and would not handle months of stall rest graciously.

Michelle excused herself to take a walk.  She had to make the decision, not me; Piney was her horse, I only leased him.  I knew in my heart that surgery was the wrong option for him, but I was still willing to try and treat this medically.  After a few minutes, Michelle came back; she agreed with me.

The doctors and techs transferred Piney to a stall and outfitted him with fluids and medications.  Michelle and I stayed in the stall with him, willing him to get better.  He stood with his head pressed against my stomach, my arms wrapped around his head.  My grumpy, standoffish old man needed me.  I whispered all the things I needed to tell him into his fuzzy ear - that he was the best horse in the world, my best friend, the best teacher I've ever had, how much I love him.  And I asked him to let go.  I told him not to hold on for me; that if he needed to let go, it was okay.

The painkillers quickly began to wear off.  Piney started shaking, small tremors that gradually progressed.  I realized that I was still crying.  I had been crying more or less continuously for about two hours by now, to the point that I really was no longer aware of it, but for some reason now I was.  I looked at Michelle.  "It's time, we need to let him go," I whispered.

So I stood and watched my best friend die.  I talked to him the whole time, telling him what a good boy he was and that I would always love him.  After he was gone, the doctors let us stay with him.  Michelle and I sat next to him stroking his head and neck for almost half an hour, neither of us willing to leave him and face the truth: that he was not coming back; we had to haul an empty trailer the two hours home.

I kept a lock of his mane.  It sits on my nightstand next to my alarm clock, a reminder of my gentle, funny boy.  I found out later that Michelle was going to give him to me for a graduation present, even if we had to retire him at that point.  He had chosen me.  He was my horse.  This was incredibly gratifying for me; I always thought of him as my horse, it was nice to know that others saw that as well.

My biggest regret is that I did not take enough pictures of him, or the two of us together.  This is a screen cap from a video at our last show; sorry for the poor quality:

My wonderful little Piney Bo.  You were my partner in everything, and I am grateful for every moment I had with you.  I wish there were more of them.