Two months ago today, I had my horse, Willie, put down. He was coming on 22 years old and we discovered a large (football-sized, actually) tumor in his abdomen. There were, of course, options to operate and remove the tumor, but having him euthanized seemed to be the only humane choice given his age and the type of surgery/recovery periods we were looking at.

So. My friends Anna and Jo loaded him into the trailer and drove him to Cornell and I signed a bunch of papers and we all cried. Then we left. I know this:

They did a physical exam.
They injected him with an over-dose of barbituates.
They took him to necropsy and let students do the post-mortem exam.
I got a bill.
I got the results of the necropsy. (Yes, in that order.)

Willie has very much been on my mind since I lost him (and isn't that a funny phrase? like...what? I somehow misplaced 1500lbs of horse?), but today especially. This morning, I sat down next to the mother of the young woman I bought him from six years ago. We both work for the university and our paths have never crossed before, but, today, we wound up in the same meeting and I didn't need to see the name on her tag to know that she was Willie's Grandma. It was like having an older version of Sarah sitting next to me.

I introduced myself and made the connection for her (since I doubted very much she'd know my name off hand) and we had a very nice chat about Willie and about Sarah. Then she thanked me. I'm not really sure why. Maybe for taking care of him. Maybe for being the right person at the right time when Sarah needed to sell. Maybe for just putting a face to my name.

It was nice. Comforting, somehow.

See, I have this whole twisted psychological thing about Willie and Sarah. Or. I guess I had one. Past tense. Even after years of paying his board bills and cleaning his wounds and tending to his moods, I still always half expected that she would come back one day and say "Thanks for taking care of him, I'll take it from here." Which is not to say anything what-so-ever about Sarah's character, but, rather, to give you a window on my own personal insecurities and psychotic leanings.

He was mine, sure. And I think that I eventually even won over his heart and mind, but there was a bond between them that I knew I wouldn't ever be able to touch. It's hard to decribe--the sort of emotional things that happen between person and horse when they work together long-term. I have long maintained that riding is the only true team sport--if only because you are never, ever solely responsible for anything while you are astride. There is always another being with you--another personality...another mood. And you have to deal with that--take it into account and cajole cooperation or, well, you're screwed. Screwed, I say.

Anyway. The morning that we took Willie to Cornell, I wrote Sarah an email explaining the situation and letting her know what I had decided to do. It had always been my intention to include her in this decision if it became necessary (and, really, I was just praying that he would make it for me one day and all I would have to do is mop up). So I told Sarah that in the email and I repeated it to Susan today after the meeting. And she said that although Sarah was sad, she [Susan] thought that she [Sarah] was relieved to have been removed from the situation.

So maybe that's what she was thanking me for. I don't know.

I do know that I miss him. We had our share of disagreements, Willie and I. In fact, we spent the better part of the first year I owned him in a nearly constant power struggle. He was opinionated. So am I. He was stubborn. So am I. I've always said that our major problem was that we were too much alike in personality...those buttons? They were so very easy to push--for both of us.

Willie had triggers (lead change across the diagonal? OMG NO!) and so did I (swedish oxers set at certain angles to the rail? ARGH AIIEEEE!). But we figured it out, somehow. And we learned to trust one another. And, by the end of things, it worked (mostly).

When I bought him, I knew full well that our time together would be limited in one way or another. Frankly, I'm amazed he stayed as sound as he did for as long as he did. I always asumed that it would be a joint or bone related issue that would force my hand in one direction or another. I was keenly aware of the ticking clock from day one and I know that I was very lucky to have him in my life for as long as I did.

Still. It was too short.

I have a friend who has just had to put her dog down for similar reasons. She is hurting and second-guessing and missing her pup and what I want to do is make her feel better. I can't. I know this because nothing anyone says to me makes me feel better.

You have these relationships in your life and you know from the start that they are going to end before you are ready for this to happen but, somehow, denial kicks in and you forget about that. I think that's probably why it hurts so much when it does end. Not only are you suffering from the grief of your loss, but you've also just been bitch-slapped by reality.

Too short. Too short. Too fucking short.



Willie's full name was Time Will Tell.

I think that's a pretty good mantra for life.