Three Years, and There's Still a Horse-Shaped Hole In My Heart

Photo copyright Aji, 2020; all rights reserved.

This month is a rough one for me. Markers everywhere. And it's not like we haven't added a bunch more in the last few weeks and months.

But this one hurts in a very particular way. Three-years, and there's still a horse-shaped hole in my heart.

We called him Ice (along with a few other names, because around here, everyone gets formal names and traditional names and nicknames, and occasionally gets called Butthead or similar, too). He was my mustang, my wild horse, my tough guy, my warrior. 

And he never had a chance. But we didn't know that that Christmas Eve six years ago when, having suddenly materialized in the next field, unattended, unfed, unwatered, and evidently unclaimed, he crossed the boundary onto our side.

And never left, until this day in 2017 when he crossed that other, more permanent boundary. Like my other horse, still living, he arrived abused, abandoned, starved nearly to death. Back then, we had plenty of snow, and it had crusted on the whiskers under his chin, the low-angled light of the setting sun turning it to ice crystals. And so he became Ice, because we had to call him something while we put the word out that this horse had shown up, and we'd make sure he was fed and watered until his people came and claimed him.

No one ever claimed him.

And so he got his fondest wish, which was to be part of a herd again, and everything seemed fine until the following May . . . when he colicked. Hard. And it wasn't regular colic; it was sand colic, and the vet estimated a 75+-lb. mass impacted in his gut, the second-largest she'd ever seen. The kind that develops not over five months, but more like five years.

And she warned me that we might not — probably wouldn't, in fact — be able to save him. But we could try. And so through an absolute rainfall of tears, because he had already set up camp in my heart, and the early monsoonal rainfall whipping the land at four in the morning, I was out there in the dark and the gale, changing the IV bags hooked up to him where he was confined in the small stall. And I did it, and so did he, and after weeks of work and walking, oh, my god, the endless walking, a few instances of getting my feet stomped and one of getting clotheslined in a way that, but for boots, would have taken my feet off at the ankles, we got him healthy again.

And he thrived. Until August 4th of 2017. He colicked again, not sand but a regular colic, but we're both experienced enough to know that it was bad. And the next day we learned why, and why he never had a chance: There was a tumor in his abdomen, impinging on the gut, and it had grown downward to such a size and position that there was full torsion, and the integrity of the wall was already breached. He was a warrior, and would have fought as long as we permitted it, but it was our job not to let him suffer, and based on what was described, we knew his pain was already untenable.

And so at 10:30 on the morning of the 6th, the vet came out a third time. And my beautiful high-stepping boy is buried by his new-found sisters, beneath a bank of wild sunflowers. The same place where I took his spirit some cedar and water and tobacco this morning. And my heart is still a mess of broken shards, and always will be. 

We love you, Ice. Someday we'll cross the bridge to run with you again.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.