| Today
I stood by while a horse was put to sleep.
For people accustomed to farm life, this is nothing out of
the ordinary. Death is part of the life cycle. Last June I
stood by as a foal took his first breath; one year later I
watched as an aging mare took her last. In terms of everyday
life, it is neither miracle nor tragedy.
Dancer was 28 years old, geriatric by horse standards. She
was tall and off-black, with a distinguishable grace and a
dogged work ethic, the product of her Quarter Horse/Thoroughbred
parentage. She came to the barn as a four-year-old, a prospect
to be trained for the hunter circuit and sold for a nice profit.
Her plans lay elsewhere, though. She jumped four-foot obstacles
cross-country and competed at fourth level in dressage. For
those of you who don’t ride horses, think “triathlete”;
you’ll be on the right path. She was never sold away
from the barn.
About a dozen of us--riders, instructors, and parents--gathered
at the barn this morning. Dancer had suffered a stroke during
the night. She staggered in her stall, leaning on the walls
for support. The barn owner haltered her and led her to the
trailer, stopping to let her lean on the wall and rest every
few paces. She stumbled willingly to the trailer, but the
effort to step in was too great. When we tried to push her,
she leaned instead. The decision was made to have the vet
come out. We led her to a nearby patch of grass for her last
meal and brought out her pasture buddy, Appy, for a final
goodbye.
In the wild, horses close to death will circle in one spot
until they collapse, and they finish their lives in the bed
they have trampled out for themselves. Dancer was circling,
snatching mouthfuls of grass from our hands every few revolutions,
and the stronger among us took turns holding her leadrope,
keeping her from stumbling into the construction debris all
over the property. Slowly, she dragged us in circles back
toward the barn, heading for her stall. We struggled to hold
her long enough to inject a sedative.
The vet wouldn’t arrive for another hour, and the sedative
had had no effect. We decided to move the horses to the arena,
where they would be safer. Three or four people hauled Dancer
by the halter while another walked behind, clapping. The noise
startled her enough to keep her moving forward.
About a year and a half ago, I hopped on Dancer bareback to
give her some exercise. Her arthritis was acting up, and she
was stiff. The last words I heard were “Don’t
be hard on her; she’s been really stiff lately.”
Well, the way to stretch is to work, right? I pushed her gently,
and she responded by loosening up more and more. It was late
at night and cold, and the only people on the property were
myself and my husband, in a dusty indoor arena with an old
radio. Dancer became more and more responsive. I finally shouted
“Hey--let’s see if she can really do fourth-level
dressage” and asked her to canter. I turned her diagonally
across the arena and shifted my weight side to side clumsily.
In response to my idiotic attempts at competence, she did
perfect one--and two-tempi lead changes. For those of you
who don’t ride horses, think “skipping”
in this case. It’s hard enough to skip with two legs,
let alone four. The horse was prancing and snorting and obviously
pleased with herself.
Back under the shifting sun and clouds in the outdoor arena,
we turned the horses loose. Dancer stumbled into the side
of the barn, then into the fence. On the other side of the
arena, a small herd of geldings reared and kicked each other
nervously. We resumed our turns at balancing the dying horse
to protect her from the fences, and when it was my turn to
rest I sat in the half-built new indoor arena and collected
rocks with the trainer’s twin daughters. At five years
old, they understand death fairly well and agreed that it
would be mean to make a horse live with debilitating pain
and disability. I told them she would get one shot to go to
sleep and another to make her never wake up again. They thought
it was a good idea.
At one point, Dancer collapsed. We all breathed a sigh of
relief. Then she vigorously rolled, nearly turning all the
way over, and hopped back to her feet. The circling continued,
eyes glazed, tongue white. I tried to let her lean on the
barn wall, but she could pause for only a few seconds before
her legs moved again.
In her later years, Dancer had become a reliable, if not entirely
trustworthy, school horse. Beginners rode her in circles,
their bottoms thumping on her back, for lesson upon lesson.
Once in a while, especially during breeding season, she was
prone to outbursts of temper and attitude. Some days we would
just have to put her away and call it a wash. I remarked,
as she dragged another of the instructors around and around,
that this was her revenge for all those years we made her
walk in a circle for half an hour at a time.
The vet arrived. Clouds threatened rain overhead. We led Dancer
out to an open area behind the barn. She continued to spin
and wobble, making it nearly impossible to start the procedure.
The girls that had ridden and trained Dancer, weary with tears,
stood with her. I held Appy at a short distance, letting her
graze and hoping she was a comforting presence.
The new sedative took effect. With a dozen people around her,
Dancer crashed to the ground. It’s often said that a
horse makes a terrible crash when it falls, but maybe when
you work with them often it isn’t so alarming. Appy
didn’t even look up; she just wandered over to a newer
patch of clover.
The vet started the IV. Two dozen hands stroked the mare’s
body. The twins ran over to watch. Appy continued to rip at
the weeds, ignoring everything but lunch. Dancer’s breathing
got slow and deep. Appy turned in circles, looking for better
forage. Two dozen eyes dropped tears in the dirt. Dancer’s
flank began to flutter. Appy chewed weeds, her back to the
crowd. There was no movement, no sound except for the tearing
of grass. About twenty seconds later, Appy stopped suddenly
and wheeled to face the group, eyes wide. I let the rope go
slack. She took four or five steps toward Dancer and hesitated,
staring at the body. “She’s gone,” I told
them.
When everyone had said their goodbyes and headed back to the
barn in twos and threes, a few of us helped to tie up the
body for transport. While someone went for a tarp to
cover her until the forklift arrived, I sat in the dirt and
looked at Dancer’s face, her open mouth, her motionless
flank. Her dilated pupil reflected the blue of the June sky.
She still had a mouthful of grass, half chewed. With the dirty
blue tarp tucked around her, she looked small and insignificant.
And yet this death seems more dignified than most human deaths.
Animals, unlike humans, are rarely worth more dead than alive
and don’t hold grudges, so euthanasia is almost never
a matter of ulterior motive. We are under no legal or moral
obligation to both fight and wait for the felling blow. Here,
the facts are on the table--a full life, declining health,
and a readiness to move on--and we have the obligation not
to battle those facts but to catalyze them. Were it only so
easy with people. |
