Over the next thirteen years of retirement, Nube napped with friends, ate well, and stood quietly for the farrier. I always knew some undiagnosable thing wasn’t right inside him, but there were more good days than bad. He didn’t worry, and neither did I. We both tried that, and it didn’t work.
Equine pros need photos for business promotion. It’s my least favorite thing. I have flinched in front of cameras enough to know I look better if a horse is in the shot. So, this tall, elegant Iberian became my Vanna White, my fancy spokesmodel. That’s him in my bio sheets and clinic promotions. That’s him on three of my book covers, including my first book, although the story featured a different horse. Each week, I post a meme on social media; a quote of mine superimposed on a photo of a gray horse with a black background. Those are all him. I suppose, in a way, Nube became my face.
Every horse story ends the same way. The date and time might be a surprise, but there is nothing unexpected about losing a horse. I’m not looking for sympathy or condolences, just to finish Nube’s story.
It was a brisk January day. I fed the hay mid-morning and planned to meet a friend for lunch. I took one more walk through the barn, even though I had been out 20 minutes before. Nube was on the ground drenched in sweat. I raced to the house and filled a syringe with bentonite pro-bios clay, although it didn’t look like colic. Colic wasn’t this painful.
No vets were available. Nube alternated between bolting, thrashing, and collapsing for the next four hours. Getting him into the trailer wasn’t an option. I desperately thought of extreme options, just to stop his pain. Finally, a vet I knew from working with a rescue years before agreed to come. Nube’s condition was beyond obvious, but she needed me to say it. So, I did.
She euthanized Nube quickly. I thanked her, overpaid her, and went back to my barn. The clay was there on his tongue. He hadn’t swallowed or even released his jaw in those hours. I’ve never seen a more brutal death.
All I could feel was relief that he was out of pain. The rest of my herd had watched with concern when he was alive but paid no attention to Nube now that he was still. It’s a bittersweet experience when the last thing I would ever want becomes the thing Nube needed the most.
I had an online class to teach an hour later, so I washed my face and put clean clothes on. The class went smoothly. Does that make me sound callous? Think of it as a commercial break. I needed a distraction and my sadness certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
After class, I called the dead animal removal woman and set a pickup time the next day. The herd got a little extra dinner. I stood around and prayed for us all, in the odd way I do. My heart ached, but it was only one afternoon in the amazing span of Nube’s twenty years. I would not let something as ordinary as death cast a shadow over his life.
They say the five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They have never been a fit for me. After a day like this one, denial was impossible, and I could never be angry at Nube. Bargaining is the struggle to find meaning. I’ve been around long enough to know life unfolds the way it will and fighting it doesn’t work. Bargaining everything you own to find an available vet might be closer to the question.
Depression? I’ve had so much loss in my life that a low-level depression might be there, but if so, it’s married to acceptance. My memories are like a comfortable sofa. I half enjoy resting there, passing time with my loved ones and a box of tissues. But I’m pragmatic. I know there are chores to do.
One of my favorite parts of grieving is missing from that list. No significant loss is complete without some dark humor. Laughter is a human calming signal. It helps us breathe, and it clears the air. It’s a way to move when inertia suggests I don’t. And there is something so delightfully morbid about a bad joke at a touchy time.
It didn’t take long for the obvious to arise. Whose bright idea was it to have a spokesmodel? My entire ghost herd snorted and stomped their hooves just at the edge of my eye. It was the best joke any of them had played on me.
Photos of Nube were plastered everywhere. I wasn’t expecting to forget him, but this was gratuitous. Every other minute on my computer, doing my paperwork, planning courses at the Barn School, updating social media. “Not you again!” I’d cackle, foolishly underestimating what a big part of my work Nube had always been. And then I cried and laughed and cried. I sang the chorus of that great Dan Hicks favorite, How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away and blew my nose until my eyes swelled shut. The only people who think you can get over losing a horse are people who have never had one, but that’s no reason to give sadness the upper hand. Loss is also as ordinary as death. And as graceless.
Nube died almost two years ago. A humble reminder that doing my best doesn’t mean I rule the day. Nube is still my face. Not just to the world, but in the mirror. He was kinder than me, more intelligent than me, and probably an all-around better human than me. I try to live up to his memory.
Someone else
We think we know the horse, but we never can.
Instead, we contrive a fantasy that we will to be true.
Or we give up and love without knowing them.
We go by feel. It starts with a hand on their neck,
fingers raking their mane, but soon we feel them
woven deep in our guts.
Stalking them like love prey, while marveling at their majesty.
We survey the landscape of their lives
from the frisky breath of a foal to that final cooling stillness.
My gelding is dead.
I want to be contained in the space he vacated,
to take in the air spent from his lungs.
Push my forehead against a fence post to feel its touch.
The air has an alcohol sting, freezing my lungs,
Stifling my gasp. Clench my arms tight because
there is no floor, no wall, no warm place to rest my hand.
My gelding was a mystery of his own. Never mine,
but there were perfect moments I stood at his shoulder.
Whole moments I was his equal.
Tomorrow, I become someone else.
.
…
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Thank you.
Thanks for your reading time, Charlotte.
Wow Anna, thank you 🙏🏾 This poetic truthful articulation of all that is found between love, death, loss and grief cracked my heart open today. I am learning more about accepting this place in myself ♥️
Thank you, Velda. All of that adds up to life. Life is bittersweet.
❤️💔❤️
Thank you.
Bonnie Raitt’s version of “Love Has no Pride” is my internal anthem every time I have a loss.
One of my favorites. The tone in her voice. Thanks, Dee
Isn’t it great that every time fear or sadness hits we can go muck a stall or do some other horse-related task which brings comfort? Thank goodness for chores… The picture with you and Nube while he’s resting on the earth is when the tears started — sorry! What a wonderful life you shared! Aren’t we the fortunate ones.
Yes, we are the lucky ones.Thanks, Kathy.
Anna, I think Nube deserves a book of his own… What a lovely tribute to him and a candid description of his last hours. He lives on through his image, with that glorious face next to yours!
Thanks, Jeremy.
Anna, this is so beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Thanks Shelly. Isn’t that what horses are?
<3
Thanks, Susan.
and on he goes. <3
Amen, my friend.
❤️💔
Indeed, Verna.
Every once in a while, the 6 I had in my past who are now gone, come back to visit (or is it ‘haunt’?) Whenever this happens, there are tears. So grateful I still have two – and an ancient burro – to go to. Thank you Anna, that was beautiful.
They never leave us. Thanks Leslie.
Very well put…Lives go on while lives are remembered. Always remembered.
Maybe it all circles back again. Thanks Katherine.
They all hurt, but some of them…
I saw a younger sibling at Dressage Championships yesterday. Bittersweet.
Here you go again, giving words to what is in our hearts and souls when our beloved ones die. I so admire your writing and appreciate your sharing this deep talent to capture these mostly indescribable times.
Thank you, Mary. I work at writing, and writing is therapy.
Oh, Anna! I understand! Thanks!
Jean
Hey, Jean. I was thinking of you this week. Wishing you a beautiful fall in the trees.
The leaves are just beginning to change here. Thank you for thinking of me because I think of you often. “Horse Woman” sits right next to my computer. I pick it up often and read a poem or more so often. I hope you are doing well. I’m doing well in spite of my upcoming birthday that ends in one of those zeros. 🙂
Love to you and Mister.
Dang. I just had one of those nasty zero birthdays recently… best wishes, my friend. I know yours is higher, that just makes you a better vintage. Love to you, too.
made my eyes leak even tho i promised myself it wouldnt.
so many scorching words here, and so much love
i feel sad he had to have such a brutal death, but happy he had such a glorious liffe with you and is your spokesperson!
I think you probably know more than most… thanks, Chris
You and your words and your wisdom … and your heart. Magnificent. And so honest. And what a horse! No words.
My Rocky is now 31 … but don’t tell him. It’s scary times and an impending loss I can’t face. Thanks for sharing.
Rocky is all that all right. Thanks, Sherry
Anna,
I am such a fan. I bought and read all your books. I read your blogs. I wear your hats.
This was your finest and most intimate piece.
My “Nube”gelding, Valkyrie, died over a year ago. Together 20 years, we learned natural horsemanship. We camped and rode thousands of miles across 17 states. I only used a rope halter or a neck ring.
I cried when I read your poem. I realized I have been Someone Else ever since.
Appreciate your work with deep love,
Alana
Thanks Alana. Who we are with each horse really is a one of a kind thing.
You have just helped me make peace with the ‘someone else’ I’ve been for a while now. Thank you, Anna.
Not better, not worse. Different. Thanks MGR
Beautiful thoughts, thank you
Thanks for reading, Shirley
I am who I am because of my Smoke, and became another person again when he left. And before him, George, Lil’ One, Grace, Lilah, Warrior, Leilani, and Maxine, plus many others not mine that I stood in the gap for at their last breath and found myself remade in their wake. They are in my heart and my hands, no matter how many years have passed, and remind me to always be open to being remade again.
Amen. Thanks Justinn
“there is no floor, no wall, no warm place to rest my hand.”
It will have been 22 years on December 5th at about 9am. I miss him still.
I know you do, Maggie. Glad you are with us.
Anna, I hope you know I wasnt ignoring Nube and your grief – it just always hits me hard.
The sentence “Every horse story ends the same way” is the same for all of our animals – those of us who truly care and see them for the wonderful creatures they are get that. Every time.
By all rights, I had no business buying my boy – financially or knowledge wise. But I’m so glad I did – those sixteen years were just the best – with him and other horses, plus the people around horses (HORSE people).
Thanks Anna – as I’ve said before, this place and the people here are like coming home.
I know Maggie. Every moment is about remembering as we move on.
During all the losses I’ve had to face, the thing I regret the most is the inability to remove all their pain. Mine I can deal with- theirs is what ends up breaking me. Peace.
I am most concerned by the dwindling number of large animal vets. Thanks, Ren
It is very comforting to see so many friends gathered here to celebrate your life with Nube. Thank you for sharing his story with us.
Yes, so welcome to see comments. I’m grateful for those still reading my blog. After the FB hack, I’ve lost 80% of my followers and the new Google algorithms cut small businesses out. It’s pretty disheartening. Thanks Lynell.
You write so beautifully in capturing these feelings. Thank you.
Thanks, Cathy
Unforgotten they are, as Yoda would say.
Death just is, isn’t it? In all its neutral starkness. Pray that I meet it gracefully, the day it comes knocking at our door… As whole and steadfast as my horse has been.
I am 70 this year. Grace would be welcome. Thanks, Prita
I felt this from my eyebrows to my toes, shared tears , then moved on to mucking.
Mucking is always the answer, isn’t it? Thanks Monica.
a beautiful tribute to an especially wonderful horse
Thank you, Sarah
Brutal is correct. We can hope to be in a position for our horses deaths to be at least not painful, with a vet *right there*. But as you so thoroughly know, we don’t get to make that call. I’m so sorry for both of your suffering. I wish it was unimaginable, and rare. The thing about good horse care is it requires us to be braver than we are, and endure horrific situations, and accompanying feelings, while giving no weight to them, because we can’t. We still need to function, to find that elusive vet, or help getting a trapped horse free and on and on. And god, we need to laugh. I about died with “How can I miss you if you won’t go away”. Your horses are lucky to have you, as are we!
Thank you, Jane. I think I can always count on you for some dark humor!
I have been Someone Else since I lost my heart horse in February. I did not understand that until I read this post. For months I avoided the barn; only boarders were left now — she was the last of my own — and I hired someone reliable to care for these others. For the first time in my life, I did not want to muck or sweep or groom or inhale hay-scented breath. I averted my eyes in the misty morning when hoofbeats announced the retiree boarders greeting the feed lady, and asked someone else to hold them for the farrier. After many months, the reliable feed lady moved, and I stirred myself to resume going to the barn each morning. It didn’t happen immediately, but gradually a sense of pleasure draped over me as I walked up the lane, and I returned to the lifelong rhythms of feeding and watering and cleaning and fixing and finger-combing a tangled mane. But I am still Someone Else, with a huge void where Secret lived for so long, even though I’m surrounded by memories. Every horse story does end the same way, but I will never be the same again.
Thanks, Rae. I think we are never the same every single time. Dogs and cats, too.