Adieu, Stoney

This past Thursday, I had to face the eventuality that all horse owners deal with–the dreaded mortal decline of a beloved friend. I was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready and had asked Kate to bring the cows in off the pasture, feed Dancer, then take Stoney out to his pasture to graze overnight. When she came back in and told me that Stoney wasn’t acting right and I should go check on him, I dropped everything and hustled to the barn.

As a 28-year-old horse, his body had been showing its age for a while. He’d had a few molars extracted, his back was long and swayed, he couldn’t keep the weight on, he regularly battled with hoof abscesses, and he’d been having minor bouts of colic here and there. Mostly, it was something I kept an eye on and on top of with regular vet visits, a special diet, a blanket when it got particularly chilly, hoof soaks and specialty boots, and extra bedding in his stall.

On Thursday, when I found him, it was apparent his condition was worse than what I’d anticipated. He was dripping with sweat, cold to the touch, restless while also listless, rocking forward and backward, panting, and clenching his gut. I didn’t think twice about calling the vet, knowing it’d be an emergency farm call fee tacked on to whatever treatment he would need.

Earlier in the year, we had some other non-routine farm calls and were so fortunate to find a wonderful new large animal vet who had recently started her business in the area. While it’s never fun to have a sick animal, it was a blessing that we got to know her and became established patients before this tragedy. Because of our trusted relationship, when Stoney was in need, she didn’t hesitate to come and I already knew she would give sound and frank advice when it was required.

While we waited for her, Stoney slowly ambled outside where we rinsed the sweat off of him and watched helplessly as he struggled against the pain. Anyone who has loved another creature–human or animal–knows how excruciating it is to watch a loved one suffer. We all took turns watching over Stoney, brushing him, and speaking soothingly to him, constantly checking the time to see how much longer it would be before the vet arrived.

There was a flicker of hope that he’d recover, and I’d see him to his 30th birthday, but I think deep down, I knew what was coming. It just wasn’t how I was expecting it. It wasn’t supposed to happen in the middle of dinner. It wasn’t supposed to happen when Jack was out of town on a work trip. It wasn’t supposed to happen when I still needed him to be a part of my life. Truthfully, I don’t believe there is an idyllic time to say goodbye to any horse, but it all felt so unfair. I’d gone above and beyond to care for him, and it seemed like I should have a say in when I’d be ready to let him go. Would I ever have given my blessing, though?

As I had time to contemplate our twenty-six year relationship while I tried to comfort him, I thought right back to the beginning. Stoney came into my life when I was a very awkward, chubby, and excruciatingly shy fourteen-year-old. Ever since I could remember, I was a horse-obsessed little girl. Before any other identifying label I might have assigned to myself–runner, tuba girl, girlfriend, wife, mother, missionary, author, homesteader –I was a horse girl. It’s one that’s stuck with me, even as some identifiers have come and gone. Horses, and particularly Stoney, have been present in one form or another in my life through that extraordinarily transformative period of my life.

Through a series of fortunate events and sacrifices from several family members, I found myself living the dream by taking serious riding lessons, which led to my first time horse shopping. We saw several horses that day. None were “bad” mounts, but there was no denying the striking paint gelding. He had the temperament, the pedigree, and the flashy color that turned heads. I had to have him. And lucky me, I did.

For years, we learned and grew together, and had all kinds of adventures together. We went on trail rides, he took me bareback swimming, we showed in everything from dressage to show jumping to eventing, rode in the buttes of Fort Robinson, trained with Olympic hopefuls, and met all kinds of amazing people and their horses. If ever I need a reminder that dreams can and do come true, I just pointed to Stoney.

As we aged, our relationship continued to evolve. In college, I taught riding lessons and chaperoned birthday parties with him as the main attraction to pay for rent. Eventually, he came to live with Jack and I in Iowa, living his best life on our pasture. He truly is the reason at all we chose a dilapidated farmhouse as our first home–it was affordable enough to have land for us to keep Stoney on. He followed us to Indiana, and has mowed every house’s yard here for us, too. Each of our children has sat on his back since they were old enough to hold themselves up, and he’d been a central figure in our day-to-day life. I might not have taken him to the upper levels of equestrian sports. However, there is a particular bond one forms with a horse they can see out their window whenever they like. At this busy stage of my life, just the sight of Stoney was enough to satisfy my need for horse companionship.

If anyone ever was fooled into thinking Stoney was a perfect horse, I’m not above admitting that he wasn’t. He had his quirks and characteristics that sometimes clashed with my idea of what we should be doing. More than once, he dumped me at a jump (especially if there was water involved) and galloped off without me. He’d try to drag me inside if he was ever cold and in a hurry to get out of the weather. He’d get pushy and impatient with his feed, and the first time I gave him a hug, he answered with a nip to my stomach that left two very impressive teeth-shaped bruises. Plus, he’d been trained in western pleasure, and since my interests were geared more toward the English disciplines, I was forever working on his transitions from trot to walk. In his mind, he needed to stick a few, slopped jog steps in between. It annoyed me at the time that I’d be downgraded in dressage tests for our transitions. Now, it doesn’t.

Like any challenge in life, that’s usually where a person learns the most. Stoney taught me patience, perseverance, the meaning of hard work, bravery, tenacity, as well as when to bow out if it means ending on a good note. A happy horse who sees his or her rider as a trusted companion is far better than one who acts out of fear or resentment. Stoney never would have let me get away with force, anyway. On the flip side, he was also fair in his forgiveness when I failed to live up to my potential. I’ve always thought animals are the best teachers for their no-nonsense approach to life.

The ironic thing about having a horse is while there is some prestige that automatically comes with them, it is quickly drowned out by the sheer amount of work. Some people are fortunate enough to pay other people to do the menial labor required to keep horses healthy and happy. I, however, feel I was the lucky one because I didn’t have that privilege. I paid for Stoney’s boarding almost from the get-go by cleaning stalls. I’m not even joking when I say I’ve shoveled literal tons of manure in the name of horse obsession. I’ve turned out and brought in hundreds of horses where they’ve needed to be fed and watered. I’ve harrowed arenas, built and fixed fence lines, stacked hay, swept alleyways, polished tack, cleaned hair out of drains and poop out of automatic waterers… I’ve done a lot. Every drop of sweat was offered as a testament to how integral horses have been to my existence and what I was willing to do to keep them there.

Eventually, we heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway as the vet pulled in, which caused a mixture of hope and apprehension. I wasn’t naive, but had confidence in our vet’s abilities. If anyone knew something I didn’t, it’d be her. She poked and prodded. Listened to his heart and checked his gums. And frowned. It took her all of fifteen minutes to lay it out for me: his large intestines weren’t where they should be, and without drastic measures to try to fix the problem, he wouldn’t pull through. I’ve never been physically kicked in the gut by a horse, but the confirmation of my fears was as brutal as if I had been.

I had so many questions… what was causing the impaction or twisting of his gut? Was there anything we could do at home? What was the likelihood of survival if I did rush him somewhere for emergency surgery (which, at best, would have been a several hour trailer ride to the nearest University veterinarian hospital)? And when I ran out of questions seeking information, I asked her what she would do. I have to give her an immense amount of credit for looking me in the eye and telling me she would put him down to end his suffering.

I had already been considering her answer as one of the possible eventualities, but her saying it solidified my fear. There are times in life that we are all faced with realities we don’t want to confront. Nevertheless, they’re in front of us and there is no way around it. Since there was no point in not crying, I went ahead and let the tears fall. Then, the kids, who had been hovering around, asked what was wrong, and they started crying. My heart was utterly pulverized, and I kept wishing it wasn’t all happening right then. I simply was not ready to say goodbye to my friend.

Feeling completely helpless, I needed my other best friend. Jack had been on two back-to-back work trips, and I was supposed to go pick him up from the airport that evening. I needed him right then, not only for comfort, but also to help give me the courage to face the choice I knew was right. I called him, hoping his plane had landed and he could answer. Mercifully, it had. Immediately, he recognized something was wrong and helped walk me through it. Between the vet’s advice and Jack’s reassurance that I was making the best decision, we agreed that for Stoney’s sake, he should be put down.

Large animals like horses dying is a unique challenge. It’s not like burying a favorite dog in the corner of the backyard or taking their body to be cremated. Heavy machinery and lots of people become involved. I had contemplated before that day what I’d do with Stoney when the time came. Morbid, perhaps, but I am also practical. Cremation was out of the question. Burying him would have *technically* been illegal in our county, though I would have broken the law for Stoney. I sometimes joked that I was going to have him stuffed and mounted and put in our living room so I could ride him whenever I liked. I’d also heard of an exotic big cat rescue that would accept livestock for their animals to consume.

After weighing our options, I knew I wanted to donate Stoney’s body to the big cat rescue. I am not naive about the way nature works, and can appreciate how challenging it can be to feed large animals, especially ones that eat meat. It would be Stoney’s last kindness, and give a small piece of meaning to his death.

My decision to donate Stoney was not without its challenges. It required a few other people with specific skills to agree to help. After thanking the vet and excusing her to go eat with her family, I made a few phone calls to make the arrangements, asked Jack to make a few of the calls while he was taking a Lyft home from the airport, and then… waited.

The relief when Jack finally got home was palpable, and it’s amazing what a quick hug and a few words of reassurance did to support me. His presence was a huge silver lining in what would have been unbearably cruel without him there. With my family complete, another tender mercy was the ability of us all to say our goodbyes, including my mom, who video called. Some of the au revoirs were quick and unaffected–Adam and Peter didn’t understand the implications of their last pat on Stoney’s neck. Everyone else cried, knowing what was coming. Stoney had been there since day one, and it was an impending shift in their lives. It was hard to witness, but I also don’t believe in completely shielding children from sorrow. The years of joy we had with Stoney had a price to them.

By the time we’d made arrangements and everyone necessary had arrived, I’d sent the kids off to bed. Before Claire went, she did me the great service of braiding and cutting off his tail so I could keep it as a memento. It took a few moments to get everything into place, and with a prayer and one last hug, we said goodbye to Stoney.

We loaded him onto the trailer that night, so we could take him to the big cat rescue in the morning. Most of the kids were up to going to school, but Evelyn and Claire decided to go with Jack, Adam, and I. Their reasons for going were varied, but I appreciated their support. The drive there was slow–our old Suburban’s brakes were questionable at best and honestly, I wasn’t in a huge rush to arrive. Once there, they unloaded Stoney with the greatest respect and appreciation for our donation. And that was that.

It’s hard to quantify the grief I’ve been feeling. Stoney was an animal, yes, but he was so much more than that. He was a confidant, an adventure companion, a dream come true, a friend, and a huge piece of my childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. He saw me through all sorts of highs and lows, was an integral part of Jack and my courtship, and a staple of my kids’ lives. He’s the reason I transitioned from city life to the country and whether on his back or next to him, I’ve had so many amazing experiences.

Of all the things I miss most about Stoney is just seeing him. He’s not in the pasture when I’m driving back from dropping kids off at school. He’s not waiting expectantly for me at night, hoping for some mash or an apple. No more running my hand over his smooth neck, or touching the softest spots on his muzzle. It’s not all sadness, though. I still have Dancer, who is an incredible and sweet horse in her own right. She’ll need another companion, and thanks to Stoney, I’m confident I’ll be able to find another perfect horse when the time is right. Until then, I’m grateful for a lifetime of memories with my favorite horse, and hope that Stoney is enjoying rolling hills of green grass, no biting flies, endless, cool springs, and rest from all his hard work.