Note: This was written in 2014.
Five years ago, you were alive and breathing. Feeling the pain in your joints, probably, and your face whiter than the last time I saw you. But alive.
Five years ago, you spent your days in a lush, beautiful pasture grazing on rich, green grasses. You spent your nights in a large, spacious stall. You even had a lovely mare you spent hours with, nuzzling.
She went first. You were next.
You were sick. You were made as comfortable as possible. When the time came and the decision was made, I like to imagine that your last few days were some of the best of your retirement. You would be allowed to graze wherever you pleased (I know you loved the clovers), walking from spot to spot. You would do whatever you wanted, whether it be a nap underneath a tree or a luxurious roll in the dry soil.
When the first of two injections was administered, I like to imagine that you were with someone you knew, someone you knew loved you. That the collapse onto your side was graceful. That someone stroked your face as you took your last breath.
It has been five years.
Five years since you left this earth to cross the rainbow bridge. Five years since the aches and pains left your body and you could frolic in the tall grasses like a young colt. Maybe in your paradise, you’re galloping across the land with a spotted Appaloosa with a full tail, or you’re grazing with a mischievous bay miniature horse. Or you’re reunited with the mare who left first.
Perhaps you are walking with the best of the best, the world-renowned athletes. Perhaps all of you are little colts and fillies, you with a shock-white blaze across your little face. Galloping through the forests and hopping over logs without a worry.
Five years is a long time in a lifespan, but it has passed so quickly.
Five years ago, I was a senior in high school and grimly preparing to end my lease, to get ready to move seven hundred miles away to go to a college with people I had never met. News of your death was both a shock and not.
During my freshman year of college four years ago, during the month leading up to the one-year anniversary of your death, I posted a status daily on Facebook about the bond shared between horses and people.
During my sophomore year of college three years ago, I simply posted, “It’s been two years, boy.”
During my junior year of college two years ago, I posted, “Tack in the seat next to me, an old truck running smoothly, tall boots on my feet, and a jacket full of treats. Horse time!” and responding to a commenter, I wrote “What a great way to remember the passing of a gentle soul by spending time with other gentle souls.”
During my senior year of college one year ago, I posted links to several blog entries I wrote about my time with Teddy, and finished it off with a poem by Stanley Harrison.
It went:
“Somewhere… somewhere in time’s own space
“Somewhere… somewhere in time’s own space
There must be a sweet pastured place
Where creeks sing on and tall trees grow
Some Paradise where horses go.
For by the love that guides my pen
I know great horses live again.”
Today, during my first year of graduate school, I know that I miss you, and I appreciate the gifts you gave me. The ability to understand horses, to keep calm, to find other solutions when one doesn’t fit. I recognize that you were a special horse, and you will always hold a place in my heart.
But.
You are no longer at the front of my thoughts. You still sneak in the back recesses of my mind, and catch me at moments when I least expect it.
Days when I sit, cleaning the dust off your old bridle, and I come across those fine white hairs still caught in the stitching of your browband. I don’t have the heart to pluck them out.
Days when I soak your old bits and give them a good, hard scrubbing even though there is no bits of grass to get rid of.
Days when I take out your old saddle and give it a good scouring, I think that I should sell it; but then I remember the hours spent in the seat, and how you launched me from that saddle exactly twice.
Days when Ringo gives me a difficult time – refusing to let me put on his halter or circling, not allowing me to pick up his back feet – and I growl, “Teddy would have never done this!”
But these moments grow few and farther in between. Every day is a new day, and every day it gets easier.
Will I ever forget you? No.
When the days grow shorter and the winter solstice approaches, I think about that bay horse with a white blaze. How he was so thin when he stepped off the trailer, how quickly he gained weight, how I gravitated toward him.
Thoughts of our first ride, when I worried that I wouldn’t be able to stop you because your canter was so fast and your trot so rough. How we spent one lazy fall afternoon cantering around a round pen. How you seemed so calm even as we rode down Grandover Parkway as trucks and cars whizzed past us.
Memories of horse shows, one satiny ribbon after other, accumulating a collection of primaries with other colors thrown in. Our first horsemanship clinic and how the clinician worked so hard with us until you bravely walked across a pallet on the ground. Of lessons, trainers standing in the middle of the ring shouting commands, flying changes, counting strides, finally hitting that perfect distance.
I was able to hug you, stroke your face, and feel your breath on my right hand as you walked alongside me, halterless and bridleless, for three short years. Your retirement lasted two full years.
Three years is a short time, but I have a lifetime of memories from the most wonderful horse. I will always remember you, and there will never be a day when I won’t think of you.
When your horse follows you without being asked, when he rubs his head on yours, and when you look at him and feel a tingle down your spine...you know you are loved.
John Lyons
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