6.8.25
Sometimes, no matter how you try to plot your day, things happen that put the best laid plans awry. Now one can either put up a struggle, become despondent and grumble when the day is not going as planned, or take a breath, reorganize and make the best of a bad situation. That is what we found ourselves doing on Wednesday.
For a while now, we have known the time was coming to lay our last old horse, known throughout his life as The Colt, to rest. Several times this past winter I thought the deed would have to be done yet each time he would rally. This spring, for a while at least, he seemed to blossom on the green sprigs of grass that lured him away from his pile of hay and sometimes even his special grain. I kept hoping he would make it to his 27th birthday, but that was just wishful thinking on my part.
Some days when heading out to milk Heidi, I would see The Colt lying in his favourite spot, stretched out on his side, feeling sure he had passed away during the night. Calling out his name, his head would raise, and he would nicker at me, finally struggling to his feet before tottering stiffly over for his morning hug. Each time I witnessed this my heart ached and I told myself it was time. Then, as he contentedly munched away on a pan of grain, his coat shining in the morning light, I would think “Not yet. Not yet.” I knew I was just prolonging the inevitable, I was being selfish, but I did not want him to go.
The Colt was born on the fourth of July and waited to enter the world until I had popped to the house to make a much-needed cup of tea. His mum, Charro, was the full sister of my dear old Luke both offspring of Darrell’s old riding horse Caucaroche – lovingly known as Kook. The Colt took after his mum in his grulla colouring. A rich, dark slate grey with black mane and tail, tiger stripes on his legs and a dorsal stripe down his back. From a wee colt, his cow herding instinct was apparent, and my friend Lynda dubbed him The Little Prince. We let our grandson Jesse, who was around 11 at the time, name him. Since the foal was born on the fourth of July, Hancock’s Rocket Man ended up being his registered name, although to us and all who knew him, he was forever The Colt. As he grew and matured, he was a fine fellow to look at with a gentle temperament yet a good dash of spice in him too! Wanting him to be a good all-around horse, I started him under saddle in both western and English disciplines. He loved to chase cows yet tack him up in an English saddle and he would pop over fences with ease.
Over the years, many Pony Club youngsters rode and learned much from this challenging fellow during riding events held here on the farm. In fact, he eventually went home with one young lass who fell in love with him after jumping him in one of my clinics. Unfortunately, her regular trainer in the valley was not a fan of stocky little Quarter horses, preferring instead the warmblood breeds. Hearing of this, and the young girl’s tearful dilemma, I immediately said I would take The Colt back, not wanting him to be passed from one owner to the next. He returned home where he has remained with us ever since.
On Wednesday of this past week, my heart once again ached as I watched him struggling to his feet to greet me as I went to give him his morning pat. I told myself his time had finally come, and Darrell knew it too. We could have had one of our wonderful vets come out from John Day to take care of the deed for us, but I knew The Colt with a stranger around, would sense something was up. I wanted him to leave us as quickly and peacefully as possible, no matter how hard that would be for Darrell and me. Despite having family arriving later in the day, knowing there was much to do to prepare for them, I also realized it was The Colt’s time. I could not bear to see him suffer any more for in just a day he had become much worse.
We picked out a special spot amongst the trees on a hillside overlooking a small valley lush with green grass. Darrell dug the grave while I went to get The Colt. As he saw me coming towards him, he nickered and on unsteady legs, made his way over to me, lowering his head so I could slip his halter on. Side by side we slowly made our way through the trees to where his last resting place awaited. Without hesitation he followed me, his nose occasionally nudging my shoulder. Waiting for him was a pile of his tasty grain which, after my customary word “Okay”, he began to eat, his eyes closing in enjoyment. A nod to Darrell, a perfectly placed shot and The Colt’s pain and suffering was over.
As tears filled my eyes, I stroked his neck and whispered goodbye. He was at rest. Gently I plaited strands of his tail hair, cutting the braid that will hang alongside similar plaits from special equine pals that have touched my life. Our hearts are heavy with sorrow, but now The Colt is running free in pastures forever green, Charro, Luke, grandfather Kook and all the other horses he has known here on the Triple H by his side. May you rest in peace my dear lad, rest in peace.
