True Animal Stories ~ From Serious & Silly to Simple > 3 Book Box Set

by Ann Patty

  As each of my pets has aged and their life end has become imminent, my concerns are for their comfort. And, as part of my family, my pets deserve a death with dignity. If I can help them out of this life with ease, I will. When it is evident their body will no longer support their life, I see no reason to have them linger or suffer.

  One week prior to Abba's new birth date, I stood alongside him in his paddock. Oh, how many times we had stood together like we did then. His head was pushing at me in my space. He knew this always drove me nuts, this barging into my auric sphere. It whacks me out. It is like someone putting my body in a blender. He knew just when to do it, too. As always, he knew how to get me to listen. After he got me to listen, I swear I saw his astral body self beside his physical body. So casually I asked him if he was getting ready to leave.

  In our quiet space, a definite conversation ensued. My spirit guide, my intuition, my brain heard an emphatic YES. And then these words came: “Is tomorrow soon enough?” Wow. Okay. I recognized my thought voice. And these words this time were not something that I was hoping or wishing for. They just came. Tomorrow? In time and space continuum, tomorrow is relative. We know our 3D linear timeline is not the same as other dimensions. That is a given. So I paused with this knowledge. It did not upset me. It was just information that got added onto with, “Are you ready? Can you handle this?” With no thought, I returned a definite YES inside my head. “Okay, then. Tomorrow will come.” It was exactly one week, not one day, later that my Abba galloped into the next dimension.

  Monday

  I had seen with my eyes that Ab in the last month was getting slower, much, much slower. I had to retrieve him some evenings for dinner. He had not noticed, heard, or maybe cared that his friends had left to come in for chow. I would go out and call to him, and then slowly, methodically, he would do his normal trail in. His back end was showing wear—the stiff kind, like that which occurs in old dogs. I was concerned that I may find him lying down and unable to get up. The fact is, you don't help dying horses get up. You help put them down. Once they are down, that is typically it. Horses do not survive in the wild in the down position. And they are not built to stay down very long. Ever noticed how their lay-down naptimes are rather short?

  I saw with my eyes Ab's physical change. Like people, animals can be old a very long time. There is no need to put down old animals early. All have purpose and things to sort out up to their dying day, just like people.

  On the Monday of this past week, I hung out with my herd during their dinner hour. Many times I did this for an hour while Ab cleaned up his plate of food. As the head Alpha horse, I could bitch off the others from Ab's dinner bowl. I now had a herd of three horses, soon to be two. I had been given a gift of a lovely mare, named Lily, who had joined our family about a year prior. This was good. JD would have a companion thereafter, whom he was already quite attached to.

  Many nights I hung out in Abba's stall during dinner. It was not necessary. His stall guard gate could have easily been closed, then later, after his tummy was full, reopened to let him out. My run-in shed out back does not have typical stalls; originally, it was a big open lounging space—one big stall just for Ab. But it transformed as my herd grew. I arranged a flexible private space with rail guards that separated Ab from the others. First it was used for Lily as she got introduced to her herd mates. Then it became everyone's and in this last year at feeding time, it had become Ab's alone.

  Senior horses are akin to senior citizens of the human kind who have special needs. Abba was no different. To maintain his weight, he was fed a rich diet: free choice hay and big bowls of a delicious mixture of senior grains and feeds. It was an ongoing research project; maintaining him at a weight to keep him comfortable had its challenges. I tried different feeds and a variety of brands. Like people, no one thing works for all horses. In his final year he liked, ate, and was weight-maintained on a beet pulp mash mixed with cob grain.

  Ab loved his meals. So did our big rats when they could wedge off the storage tops. And so did his herd mates. Ab had the good grub. They knew it and stole from Abba's plate whenever they could. Lily always stretched her head through the rails as far as possible to retrieve any fallen, forgotten morsel. To keep peace in the family, I gave JD and Lily each a small grain pile upon their hay, so they did not feel cheated. JD and Lily were a tad fat from this routine. But alas it was still winter and I liked my horses fat going into the blustery weather. Around here we layer up to help fend out the cold.

  Ab's mealtimes were a ritual. I premixed meals, one or two ahead of time. The beet pulp comes in many forms, but since I made a mash, I bought the big pellets that needed to be pre-soaked to soften. Yes, one would call Ab high-maintenance, both in time and cost. His groceries were not cheap. I did not mind, though; I always felt I owed him the best of what I could give. And these last nights had shown me why. It was not easy to find horsesitters to do this type of care either. I always hesitated to ask Jake, my husband, especially when there was such great care to be taken, but he seemed okay with it. I see now where Jake may have even welcomed the opportunity to feed lately, as he too knew Abba's days were numbered.

  Yes, I owed Ab. Intrinsically I knew this. Now I see why. The gifts he left me with were many. The endowments of fun and guidance he gave me in his young life were equaled in his later years. Abba showed me the grace of old age, and the dignity of death.

  Ab and I had accomplished and ridden virtually every style of riding genre available to equestrians. He was athletic and adapted well to new demands. By the time Abba was 18, I believed my skills had outgrown him. Horse masters like to have new challenges, to retest and reconfirm our skills. I entertained the thought of selling Abba to someone else he could teach. But that thought was short-lived—he was family and you don’t sell family unless you are into slavery. Sure, I had other horses come and go, but this Abba horse of mine had my heart. A new horse eventually came my way. I was gifted JD when Ab was 24 and still full of life. Having two horses then allowed others to ride along. So in Abba's later years he taught many of my friends and family the ultimate lessons in life. He was steadfast, unwavering—an honest mount who instilled confidence in the most novice of riders.

  Abba's poem—the one that I began penning just days after his passing—I sent to all who knew him. Like a person, Ab touched so many. My words captured his spirit and personality. Abba's tribute broke his friends’ hearts. In came an outpouring of emails and tearful phone calls. It was incredibly touching. Many of my horse friends who have journeyed alongside us, knowing our long history, cried just as hard. The memories are enclosed at the tail end of his story. Each time I read these personal tales, I re-spill my happy tears. It is quite something. In death we remember so much. Particularly what an animal soul can bring to our own life.

  Returning to Monday, a night that gave me a warning signal. I took extra notice that evening because Ab was thinning. In fact it looked like he had dropped quite a bit of weight overnight. When one is thin, even a drop of ten pounds is noticeable. I felt his ribs, his hips, and his neck. I saw his ear tips, then the points of his hips. Gone now was his hair from all his tips. Like me, Ab did not get gray hair. Yes, his dying was happening at a progressive rate now. He was beginning to really show and tell me.

  Tuesday

  The next day it was nice outside. My windshield was being replaced. My daughter came home for a bit and we were playing with the dogs outside. In tandem we looked over at Ab as he walked by us. It was quite apparent. Abba was off. His hips were not working too well. His stride was quite stiff. Soon it was going to be painful for him. I had always said that I was not going to wait for his hips to go or to find him down. I saw this happen to our dogs. It is not fair to tether a body to this earth when its soul is being called home. And horses in particular cannot withstand a painful situation too long before succumbing. They are a strong, robust breed, yet frail to circumstance and quick to react adversely.

  In that same moment, my
daughter and I looked on together. We both felt our hearts go thud. I said right then and there, “I will put him down Thursday.” It was two days later at that exact same time that I dug Abba's grave. That afternoon, I took Lily out for a ride down the road parallel to my pasture. On the way home, I looked over and saw Abba peacefully grazing as always. And then, as plain as day, I saw a lithe spirit hanging about his body. It was formless, a sort of transparent cloud, but it was present for him. Perhaps for me too, as I felt a sense of calm without emotion. Now I see it as validation for my decision. That I had let go and released Abba at last.

  I had declared Abba's date with death. Abba belonged to me. He was mine and alone it was my decision. I was so grateful for this. It had always been an extreme challenge to get Jake, my husband, to listen, even to see the proper correct time to let our dogs go. I had in the last months given him explicit instructions as to what I wanted—needed—done if Ab should pass when I was not available, or on vacation. I asked of him things he could not do. Cut off Abba's beautiful mane and tail hair. For me to remember. Perhaps one day I would like to weave it into a special wall hanging. I told him where he was to be buried and how. Jake did not want to hear my words because he had difficulty with death. This is not unusual for many people. We don't like looking into death's doors. Yet we die a little each day. When I announced my intentions to Jake that night, he issued not a word or a nod. I did not know whether he had heard me talk to our daughter earlier that day. I wanted to be sure he knew. His look acknowledged this fact—a look of distraught resignation.

  Wednesday

  The next day, Wednesday, was a gift for my Abba. In the dead of winter, it turned warm and sunny. A perfect last day. He rested upon his feet in the field. He did not eat. Mostly, he just soaked up the sun all day long. A horse who had always had an appetite, he just stood there, content. We all noticed this huge change.

  Even Jake acknowledged it was Abba’s time to go. Abba was resolved. He had won the right and earned his wings to fly on. That night I put his blanket on permanently, as he ate his second to last meal. I had alerted my good neighbors. They had lived a long part of Abba’s journey too. From their backyard they fed him garden scraps and watched and loved him as we did. They are not horse riders, but they are animal lovers. Together between us, we have a barnyard full, and all of our animals have gotten along as one huge family. With heavy hearts, Ab's second family came to tell him goodbye.

  I closed Abba inside that night. I wanted him to be warm and to be at peace from any kind of kid-pushing from the other two horses. I ran my hands through his beautiful golden mane. I rested my forehead upon his neck as I had a thousand nights before, and brushed him gently. I listened, just like he taught me. And I listened to his herd mates. They had told me too. I had watched them for the past couple weeks. Although Ab had been a loner in his life, the threesome was an inseparable trio. But, as Ab's time grew closer, a separation grew in that herd of three.

  Nature is wonderful. She knows how to make her children listen. So unlike us humans with all our manmade distractions. JD and Lily were now NOT attending to Abba; they were weaning away and giving him space. In turn, he was not the least bit interested in them either. The new normal would find JD and Lily together at one end of the field, and Ab at the other. When Ab was eating in his stall during the day, the other two were out. When they came back in for a drink, Abba was out. It was an intriguing dance. I believe Ab smelled of death. In the wild, herds cannot afford to smell like death—they will become extinct. At the beginning of the week, coyotes under my night window howled too close. Jake said he saw them back behind the open stalls, back by my Abba. They were waiting for a meal to fall. I would not oblige them.

  Thursday

  Our final morning I got up, took a shower, and when I went to put my pants on I saw a shadow of Abba. A single, shiny, bright copper penny dropped from my pocket and onto the floor at my feet. I smiled so big. My golden horse spoke. My Abba in his youth had had a copper shine that was unmatched. I got my glasses on to read the numbers. 2007. Add the numbers and they equal nine. Nine is a completion number. I replaced it deep inside my pants pocket once again.

  The morning feeding routine began. This morning I was going to give Abba several bowls of his grain along with his beet pulp. A smorgasbord, a feast, a last supper. As I readied his meal, we were alone. The others had been placed on the other side of the fence with their hay. Ab deserved just our time, alone, one last time. As I picked up his bowl of food and took it into his stall, his curious nose poked out. I lost it. Totally and completely I lost myself in horrid anguish.

  I gave him three bowls of a delicious meal and then I bawled my head off. Except for the night I called Dr. John, the vet, to duty, I had held my head high and saw it as a job I must do until done. But his last breakfast bowl would never be served to him again. His gate—a stall guard—would go unused. His grain barrels put to other uses. The carport nightlight would not stay on in the evening as a reminder to me to let him back out after feeding. There would be no more jumping for pure joy. I sold our—his—jumps just a week earlier. Oh, my God, how I wailed and sobbed. I could not—would not—control myself. I did not want to.

  My dog, Alexis, heard me. She came outside his stall door, and sat in the mud at a distance. She looked at me in curiosity and barked a strange bark. Her head bitch was a mess and she did not understand. I called her into the stall and she was shaking. I had upset her so. I rubbed her down with my hands and she settled down, then, once she had got what she needed—reassurance—she left.

  Through my sobs I brushed Ab's mane and tail. I primped him as an executioner readies their charge. I brushed his golden-turned-red tail and mane and wrapped rubber bands around them in tiers. I would not and could not take his warmth away while he lived in this three-dimensional world. I held the clippers in my pocket, but I could not, out of respect, strip his dignity or his insulating overgarments while he was alive. In between my primp job, I cried and sobbed and buried my face along his crest line while he ate, as I had so very many times before.

  Ab had more dignity than I. He just ate. He loved to eat, and especially his grains. I had always said the day Ab walked away from his grain bowl unfinished, that day would be his last. Sometimes I cannot believe the words that come out of my own mouth. I should listen more to what I say in jest. Abba did not finish his second grain bowl this morning and instead he walked off!!

  And he walked straight over to his grave spot, a place where I had fed him over the last 30 years. Then he joined Lily and JD on the other side of their fence to eat hay. I went and got him his own hay and put it near his grave spot. It was the only totally dry spot. He retreated to eat in silence. I gave him that and returned to the house for a bit. He wanted silence. My emotional energy was probably disruptive to him. Animals carry no emotion around death. Nature grants that to them. And the essence of the purity of transition.

  The Transition

  John the vet, an old friend who had seen Abba throughout his life, arrived. Our talk was trite. John saw we needed to get this job done. John is practical and outspoken, perhaps too brash for many. But I love his honesty and his big burly heart.

  I was so glad to have John see Abba off. He was really his only vet through the years. I apologized to John. I told him that I was sorry that we could not have given him more business over the years. Ab was a healthy boy. Never a sick or lame day. Ever! Other than our cart wreck, it was just semi-regular shots and checkups. Today, I'm not too convinced that any animal bred by Mother Nature really benefits from ongoing vaccines either. I have not had them done every year for a while now. And some of my other friends are following suit. My beliefs bend towards leaving good health alone, unhindered by man made meds.

  We took Abba to where he would last stand. We stood silent. Jake, with red-rimmed eyes, watched from ten paces back. Ab was his family too. We both understood the deep significance of Ab’s life to our family. I—we—were ready. All that remained
of my morning meltdown now were my red eyes; I wanted to be present for Ab. I did not want my self-absorbed emotions to get in our way. I wanted to attend his death and celebrate his freedom of rebirth. I wanted to see and feel it in whatever forms it took. Oh, I had stuffed my pockets full of Kleenex. Amazingly enough it went unused the whole day. I pulled it out crinkled from where I stashed them in my pocket that night before. Each of the pieces was dry and untouched.