Saturday, January 28, 2006

My Horse Died

My brother, C., called me the on Thursday, "Hi S. Have you talked with mom recently?" I hadn't. And for the first time in quite a long time I was feeling better about where things were with M. and I. We'd had a good week and are talking much more and trying understand each other and why this happened and figure out where to go from here. He was working on being open and honest with me and I was working on trusting him again. That night, he wanted a few alone hours, which was fine with me. I was messing around at my place taking care of a few loose ends. It was around 8 pm and I was going to go back to stay with him at 10 pm (still sleeping on the air mattress at my place--my poor back).

"No, I haven't talked with Mom; she's in Monteray, right?"

"Yeah." Then what seemed like a long pause from C., "Mokka passed away."

Now it was my turn for a long pause. Mokka is--was--my horse who I have ridden since I was 9 or 10 years old. She and I shared many many hours or riding and grooming and petting. I knew all of her favorite scratch places. She knew I knew them, too. She'd line herself up next to me so that I was closest to the most itchy spot. When I found it, she would stretch out her neck and wiggle her upper lip with pleasure. I remember going on rides with just the two of us. I'd think and pet her...sometimes even sing to her (for a while songs from the Little Mermaid were our favorite--not sure why). She would flick her ears back to listen to me and it seemed to soothe her to hear my voice. The rest of the family didn't like her as much as I did. She was the herd boss and so pestered their horses and took the best piles of hay for herself. It was with her that as a kid, I first remember feeling like I wanted to be with her and care for her and that she made me happy. For the first time I reconized that as love. Yes, my first love was my horse. And now she's gone.

I knew she was getting old. She was a little older than me (28) which is pretty old for a horse, even an Arabian though then tend to live longer. But she was getting along well. A little lower back than in her youth, but still bossing around the other and running around the field without signs of arthritis or pain. She loved to be dirty; on her white coat everything showed up.

Just the day before she died, C. and my Dad and grandfather said she was running around the field with the others, looking good. They found her in the barn the next morning. No signs of a struggle. Seems that she just didn't wake up. I can be grateful that she didn't suffer or remain ill--that she went quickly and without pain. It's how I want to go when the time comes. I am just sad that she's gone. And sad I didn't get to say goodbye.

I came over to M.'s early then and we talked about her and he listened and comforted me. I mostly just needed the hugs.

I had dreams that she wasn't really gone that night. That they'd made a mistake and she was standing right there in the arena with all of the other horses grazing. B., my youngest brother, who is also far from home for school also dreamt that she was still alive. The first stage of grieving is denial. It probably won't seem entirely real until I go home next time and she's not there. I wish we had gone for one last ride.