He was an arabian that I rescued from starvation and neglect at age 4. I promised him a home for life. That was almost 23 years ago.
I gave him all his ground training. I was the first person to sit on his back. I took him to schooling FEI levels. We galloped across fields and through woods together for over 20 years.
9 years ago, after my career crashed and I was being harassed by a sex offender and his gang of thugs, I sold my condo and moved us to Maine. I learned to use power tools and built his barn with my own hands. I installed most of the fencing myself. And at long last, he came home.
I had returned to school to restart my life, and was in my 4th day of clinical training when he had a terrible fall in the dark, at 5:15 in the morning at 15 below zero. I didn't think he'd be able to get back to his feet, but he did. I didn't think he'd make it through the week, but he did. He hung on through the winter, and by summer I was hopeful that, while he'd never be sound again, he'd stay pasture sound.
But he knew he was dying and hid it from me, while he taught the baby, his herd filly, to be alone. He hid it from me the day he slipped the gate and took himself on one last hurrah, trotting and galloping up and down the road while I nearly had heart failure from the fear, and ended up sobbing. That would always get to him, and he finally returned to his pasture on his own.
3 weeks later, he stopped eating hay. And then he stopped eating anything. And by early February I knew that he was simply done. His body was done. He stood on his burial site for 4 days while I made the arrangements for him to leave. He knew. All along my boy knew he was dying, and waited patiently for me to help him leave.
I love you pony.
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