So It Goes.

This post is really hard to write.

So I'll cut to the chase. My mom spoke to Bailey's owner today. Yesterday, he walked up to the fence over near where she was to say hi, and looked a little off. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that he had a very, very deep cut on his leg.

To make a long story short, he somehow sliced damn near all the way through his leg, severed his flexor tendon, and was euthanized. She's not sure what he did it on, and walked the entire fenceline without finding anything.

She's very upset and we are too. She says he was not distressed at all -- he was very calm, and loaded calmly on the trailer to get to the vet (the only time he's ever gone on without giving her trouble....leave it to Bailey!).

It's hard to think that he's gone. He was my first horse, you know? I'm sure you can tell by the tone of my posts about him that I loved him very much. I find it both ironic and very sad that the day before this happened, I wrote about my last ride on him. It means so much more to me now, and all the other memories -- the good and the bad. Sitting on him out in the center of a big outdoor round pen under a flat grey sky, crying from frustration in the pouring rain as he stood. Cantering in a group on a trail ride, and the way he stopped dead for me when another rider fell right in front of his hooves. Cruising around the stadium course at Inavale and that easy way he always was willing to take the long spot. The fact that he'd stand perfectly still for an intranasal vaccine, but not for the farrier. The faces he made when I fed him a bite of an ice cream sandwich, or the one time he mugged me for a cough drop and spent the next ten minutes trying to get rid of the taste. The nasty faces he'd make at me every day when I tacked him up. The way he'd always boss McKinna around and herd her away from other horses. The way his whinny always started out hoarse and barely-there, but by the third try was earsplitting.

At least it wasn't traumatic. It wasn't frightening for him, or confusing, or horribly painful, though I'm sure it hurt. It wasn't a long, drawn-out illness that slowly killed him. It wasn't an agonizing episode of colic. To be honest, he was an incredibly healthy horse. Other than being footsore after trimming for the first year or so, he was always completely sound and healthy.

I'm going to miss him very, very much.

This is one of my senior pictures. Before I got the studio photos (for yearbook), we had a session out at the barn with Bailey, because he was for sale at the time and we wanted to have these pictures of him. I am very glad we took them.

This one's my favorite. It's the way we always were when I was telling him what a wonderful boy he was; hands on either side of his head, and he'd just cock his ears and stand there. Must be a horse thing, I guess.




As Vonnegut would say -- so it goes.

My Last Ride on Bailey

As I spend more and more time with Pandora, I've been thinking about Bailey a lot. Why? Well, the similarities lead to comparisons, in this case. She's far more like Bailey than McKinna ever will be, just because she's half TB.

Here he is below, showing us exactly what he thinks of that ribbon he just got at a schooling show.

But I want to share with you what my last ride on him was like.

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We met with the prospective buyers a few days ago, and tomorrow they're coming to sign the bill of sale and pick him up. He'll be on a trailer to Montana, where he'll get to have plenty of turnout and she'll ride him for eventing. I wonder if he'll handle the colder weather well -- he always grew a pretty substantial coat for a Thoroughbred, even when he was blanketed. He'll probably be fine.

It's my last night with my Bailey, with my first horse. I don't feel much like schooling flatwork or jumping him, even though I know I'll miss his soft, forward canter that makes you feel like you could gallop forever. Even though I know I'll miss the smooth, powerful way he jumps, never exerting much more effort than needed, but never making you feel like he was working.

No, tonight I just want to ride my horse. We're both quiet as I tie him and grab his bridle. He takes the bit as soon as I hold it up, and I take a moment to smile as I remember the first year of putting molasses on the bit and fighting with him about taking it.

With the bridle on, I clamber up the railing of the arena and slip onto his bare back. He's warm against the fall-evening chill. We head down the barn aisle and out the wide doors, walking down the small hill and around the frosted grass and spread compost that covers maybe half an acre. It's dark by now, with just a little light from the moon, so I let the reins hang loose on his neck as Bailey picks his way with calm ease.

It's silent from our lack of tack, and his steps are quieted by the soft dirt. After awhile we stop and just stand there, breathing; it's visible, mine wafting like a small puff of smoke, Bailey's curling like dragon's breath from his nostrils. I twine my hands in his mane at the base of his neck, trying to warm my cold fingers against his body.

Together we stand there for a long, long time. I spend the minutes thinking about everything we've come through together, and everything he's become. He wasn't a rescue horse, but I rescued him, alright. Bailey used to be stick-skinny, untrained, and mean. Now he is this, a calm and trustworthy partner who stands quietly beneath me on the last night we'll spend together. A lot of the work was his, I know, and more than half was my trainer's gentle guidance. But I can't help but be proud of him, my OTTB that everyone looked down their nose at when I first got him.

We've come a long way, the two of us. And it's time that we both move on.

With one last stroke down his long neck, I shift and ask him to walk back up to the barn. The lights seem too bright when we get back. There's not much fanfare; I just slide down his dark side to the ground, slip the bridle off his head and the bit out of his mouth, and lead him back to his stall with just the reins around his neck. I'm cold without his body heat. He's happy to get his grain and dives into it, glancing up at me once when I stay at his stall door, slobbering grain all over before returning his nose to the bucket.

I smile and close the door, then head home. I'll see him one last time tomorrow.