Love and Loss at Christmas

The Christmas holidays can seem awfully lonely sometimes. When Sam and I used to work in the ER, we saw more than our share of the lonely and bereft every year, and it was not only sad, it could be downright exasperating and dangerous trying to deal with those folks. Don’t get me wrong—I fully understand how it can be. Lots of people have dysfunctional families and can count the number of Loved Ones on the fingers of one hand and have fingers left over. Sometimes too, bad things happen.

I’m sad this year, because my little Arab mare Hadarah passed away a few days ago. Yes, I knew it was coming, and had for some time. Yes, I did what I could to spend time with her and see that she was as happy and healthy as possible for the remainder of her days. She had a good life and her last year was a very happy one, possibly the best she ever had. I took pains to change her diet to one where she could keep her weight up and not feel hungry. We no longer had to board her at a stable, and I took care of her myself, plus she had the companionship of my wonderful gelding Laddie. Her last day was spent up on the hill above the house, grazing in the sun with Laddie. It was such a nice day, in fact, that we were able to take her turn-out rug off. My last real memory of her was seeing her standing in the sun, looking down and whinnying to me, because she wanted her afternoon snack. She didn’t have any bad moments that day until the very end, when she seemed confused, and even then, she didn’t appear to suffer. She spent the night in her stall with her head out the window in her door, with Laddie standing next to her as he always did. When we came out in the morning, she had finally lost her balance and was lying peacefully on the floor. I know she went quietly, because there was no evidence that she had thrashed around. The lights went out. Now Laddie and I are sad, lost, and wondering what to do with ourselves. Our world is smaller, diminished, because her sweet spirit is no longer in it. No matter how prepared you are for the end, you never really are.

As sad as I am for myself, however, it’s Laddie that I feel sorry for. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to have our other mare, Schelline, to keep him company when Hadarah left—but we had to sell Schelline last summer, in order to have the money to buy hay for everyone. In a way, though, that’s helped me, because Laddie has looked to me for comfort and support. When we’ve had to put down horses in years past, the rest of them just sort of came over, said good-bye, and then went about their business. Not this time. He’s still looking for her or gazing at and whinnying to the neighbor’s horses across the road. He follows me around like a lost puppy whenever I’m outside and gladly seems to tolerate the crying and excess of hugs. We will need to get another horse, but we can’t right now, since we don’t have the money. Sometimes life just sucks.

I have friends who swear they will never own another animal, because it hurts too much when they’re gone. I understand how they feel, but I don’t agree with them. What is life worth if you never love anyone or anything, because you don’t want to get hurt? I can’t live that way! Yes, losing an animal such as Hadarah hits especially hard, because she was more like my child than a pet. We bring them into our hearts and families, and sometimes imbue them with more human traits than they actually possess—but they are special, and they know it. Hadarah gave me more love than I’ve gotten from most people I’ve known in my lifetime, and I imagine many people out there would agree with me, regarding their pets. So, we mourn them and remember them. Hadarah will have a memorial plaque on our round pen when it's finished, and I’m going to have some of her tail hairs made up into a bracelet. In the meantime, all I can do is cry and hope that Heaven is real, because regardless of whether it is or not, it gives me something more to hold onto. Right now I need that, and if thoughts of Heaven serve no other purpose, then I guess they have done their job.