He was lying down
Story by Amethyst Mare on SoFurry
His days are numbered, his owner set to put him to sleep, and then we found him lying down...
A follow on from Borrowed Time and "I'll have him shot". The owner of this horse wants to put him down because of friction and conflict on the yard. He is still currently alive but she essentially can't be bothered with him anymore. He's given her many years of service and now she won't see him through his elderly years. The other lady also wants to send her pony to a sanctuary. He barely gets any attention and both are perfectly healthy to my eye and knowledge.
I went up to the yard one evening after the threats to put him to sleep began and he was lying down outside the stable. This is that story.
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Story © Amethyst Mare / Arian Mabe
He was lying down
Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)
_ _
My heart plummeted. She hadn't done it. She hadn't really gone and fucking done it…had she?
The black and white cob lay flat out on his side, head stretched out as if he'd gone to sleep. I couldn't get out of the car, ducked back into the back seat to buy myself time, mouth dry and blood pumping.
Head straight, thinking clearly. The wind howled, threatening to slam the car door shut on me. I had to get it together. Get it the fuck together.
She'd said she'd have him shot if issues couldn't be resolved, but the horse was in good health, if past twenty. They weren't reasonable issues to put a horse down, but she said it all with a sad look on her face and a shrug of her shoulders like it was the only option that I had led her to.
I thought she'd done it, for a moment.
And then the cob moved.
I'd never been so relieved to see a horse move before, but he didn't get up. No, the old man thrashed and kicked and groaned, trying to roll with his legs flailing from pain that he could not understand.
“He's got a touch of colic," his owner said.
I was too relieved to see that he was actually still alive to really absorb it, but it was serious. It was very serious. A horse of that age? It would depend on the kind of colic, but it wasn't good news either.
Busy, busy. I had to keep busy, do something with my hands, keep an eye out for anything I could do to help. I offered use of my trailer, but the vet was on his way. Good, I said. I said that was good. My words seemed wooden, the right ones and yet still not enough.
The cob rolled and thrashed, breathing laboured through flared nostrils as he groaned and tried to relieve himself of the pain in his gut. I'd seen him lying down earlier for a while longer than usual, but he'd gotten up and seemed to be grazing, so I'd thought he'd been okay.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I went to check on my horse, the mare waiting patiently by the gate even though she didn't quite understand why she'd been left out on her own. I didn't want her to disturb her field mate, but she'd have to see him eventually: the poor girl couldn't be left out all night. She snorted and called to her other companion, a bay pony who was already stabled warm for the night, and he whinnied back to her. She was safe.
He didn't want to get up, the old cob, flinging out his forelegs and then staying there on his belly as if that movement alone had been far, far too much for him to bear. His nostrils fluttered with rapid breath, every twitch in his tired frame seeming to either cause him pain or rise as an expression of it.
Hand on his face, I tried to soothe him, but he didn't know what was happening – how could he? All he knew was that he was in pain and nothing he did stopped the pain either. A creature of fight or flight chose flight and found he had nowhere to go.
There wasn't much anyone could do to get him up and no amount of pushing or clicking or rustling treat packets – I should have known he wasn't right when he wouldn't take a treat from me earlier – was ever going to work. He had to make that decision for himself. We still tried though, until his owner came back, grave faced and phone in hand. Still no vet. The wind moaned.
Feed in stable ready for her, my living, breathing, curious horse still waiting so very patiently to come in from the field. I had to get the jobs done, couldn't hover and offer to assist more than I already had. One wheelbarrow prepped with hay and straw for the morning, one bucket of water and tools tucked neatly up to the wall. Everything was ready. What could I do?
Hooves rang out on concrete and I popped my head out of the stable, hoping against home. Up on his hooves again – that was good. That was very good! Better, at least, if not! It was a relief to see him walking and moving instead of lying there prone between spasms that surely felt like his gut was being twisted and warped.
Where on earth was the vet? I brought mine in, tucked her up in her stable for the night. She didn't know what was happening and proved a calming influence. It was reassuring to run the brush over her, even if the silly mare had rolled, and feel that she was still there, alive and well. Her gut was gurgling too and she nosed at me while I pressed my ear to her stomach.
“Yes, yes, honey, I know I'm being silly. Humour me, okay?"
He walked and walked, head hanging and blowing sadly. The poor boy just wanted to stop, but they couldn't let him stop – what if he went down again? A gentle walk, a plod at best, would do him far better.
But his owner's eyes were tired too. I made her a coffee, accepted the lead rope from the owner's hands and walked him up and down, up and down, along the length of the yard and back again. He lifted his hooves slowly as if he needed far more energy than normal just to lift them one after the other and I clicked him on gently when I felt him pull back, wanting to stop.
Just a little more, boy. You can do it. Come on now.
I'd never been so relieved to see headlights coming down that road, but why had it taken the vet so long? It didn't matter, but it still did, and I hovered anxiously, a coffee that wasn't mine cradled in hand, waiting on the verdict.
He was going to be okay. Poor old boy. But he still had years left in him and, really, that was why I had been so upset over the thought of him leaving us before, all for reasons that were not valid. Seeing his owner hold his head for the injection and the sedative, however, I wondered if she'd meant what she said about letting him go at all.
Perhaps crisis brought out the best in people that night.
Even after I went home, I could not rest, mind active and sharp and worried. I tried to stay busy, but all I could see was his legs in the air, kicking and striking out at an enemy that caused him harm and yet he could not fight. But the old cob was lucky there that day that he had others to fight the battle for him.
Go to sleep.
_ _
He lies there, flanks heaving with breath. I want to help him, but I can't.
Open my eyes, roll over onto my other side. He's not my horse. He's fine. He's in his stable. The vet said he'd be okay.
_ _
Go to sleep, damn you.
_ _
The cob groans, eyes wide and wild, pleading for help. He lies out flat, exhausted and lacking the energy even to protest the pain.
_ _
Please go to sleep.
_ _
But I still see him.