The Old Horse

A horse lay on his side on the pave­ment at the inter­sec­tion of Clear Val­ley Road and Long Val­ley Road. He wore the signs of old age, a scruffy brown coat, bloat­ed girth on a skin­ny frame, pro­trud­ing ribs and hip bones. A crowd of about 20 peo­ple had gath­ered around him. A man pulled on his reins while oth­ers pushed him and prod­ded him. “Come on, Papa! Up now! Get on up! Up you go!” The old horse lift­ed his head fee­bly, let it fall back to the con­crete, and heaved a long slow breath.

Wear­ing rid­ing breech­es and boots, a gaunt woman with close-cropped dark hair and tat­tooed arms stood over the horse, scowl­ing. “There’s noth­ing wrong with him,” she said. “He’s stub­born. He just doesn’t want to get up.”

I parked my car across the street from the crowd and got out. Lon­na, a horse own­er and long-time mem­ber of the Hid­den Hills Eques­tri­an Com­mit­tee, ran over to me with her cell phone in hand. “I’ve been try­ing to reach a vet, but no one’s avail­able. Do you have some­one you can call?”

My call to my vet went straight to voice­mail. “Hey, Doc. This is Ken Oder. It’s an emer­gency. A horse is down on Clear Val­ley Road in Hid­den Hills. Call me as soon as you can.”

Lon­na tried anoth­er num­ber and raised a vet’s assis­tant. Her boss was in the field, but she said she’d try to reach him. “The horse is 38 years old,” Lon­na told her. “I’m afraid we may need a hauler, too.”

I walked over to the horse. His head lay list­less­ly on the pave­ment, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, a small pool of blood under his muz­zle. His breaths came in irreg­u­lar heav­ing gusts.

I knelt beside him. The blood came from a cut on his low­er lip. It didn’t look seri­ous. I didn’t see any oth­er wounds. I ran my hands over his legs and ribs. I felt no breaks. No swelling.

Most trou­ble­some was his posi­tion, lying flat on his side. Hors­es can’t stay down for long. They sleep stand­ing up in the “stay” posi­tion, three legs locked with a back leg bent at the hock and fet­lock, ready for instant flight if a preda­tor approach­es. They can lie down for short breaks to take pres­sure off their legs, but if a horse is recum­bent on its side for too long, its weight restricts blood flow to vital organs and com­press­es the lungs.

Hors­es rarely make it into their late 30’s. A 38-year-old horse is rough­ly equiv­a­lent to a 100-year-old man. This old horse was liv­ing on bor­rowed time before he went down. If we couldn’t get him up soon, he would cer­tain­ly die.

The gaunt woman in rid­ing gear stood a few feet away talk­ing with anoth­er woman.

“What’s his name?” the oth­er woman asked.

“Casey.”

“What hap­pened to him?”

“Hell if I know. I was lead­ing him down Long Val­ley when he fell down for no reason.”

The horse was bri­dled. No hal­ter. No lead line. A sad­dle lay beside him that the men who tried to get him up had tak­en off him to ease his breath­ing. The woman wasn’t lead­ing him when he fell. She was rid­ing him. About 5 feet 4 and bone-thin, she was a light load, but still heavy enough to break down this old geld­ing. It angered me. No one, not even a small child, should have climbed on this old horse’s frail back.

A truck pulled up behind me, and my vet got out. I was great­ly relieved to see him. He’d worked mir­a­cles for my hors­es, and Casey need­ed a miracle.

“Thanks for com­ing so quick­ly,” I said.

“I came as soon as I got your mes­sage. I was afraid it was one of your horses.”

“Not mine, thank God, but I hope you can help him.”

The vet looked Casey over. “First thing we have to do is get him up.”

“They tried. He couldn’t stand.”

“Prob­a­bly because his head’s down­hill on this lit­tle slope. He can’t get his back legs under his weight. We have to turn him around.”

No small feat. Hors­es weigh 1000 to 1200 pounds on aver­age. I asked the strongest-look­ing guy in the crowd to help me, and togeth­er we man­aged to pull Casey slow­ly around by his tail until his back legs were down­hill. When we let go of him, he rolled over on his bel­ly into a sit­ting posi­tion like a Sphinx, his head up, his legs tucked under him. I twist­ed his tail and pushed him, but he wouldn’t stand.

“I’ll get him up,” the vet said. He unspooled a hose from a bar­rel of water in his truck bed and sprayed it over Casey’s head. “They hate this,” he said. “It always works.”

Sput­ter­ing and shak­ing his head, Casey got his rear hooves under him and pushed his hindquar­ters up in the air, but he was still down on his knees in front, like he was pray­ing at the altar of the god of old hors­es. With a great effort, he lift­ed one front leg and got his hoof on the ground, then the oth­er leg, heaved his front end up, and stood on all fours.

The crowd cheered.

“Let’s see how he walks,” the vet said. I led Casey across the road and back. His gait was slow, but regular.

While the vet went to his truck to get his bag, I stood beside Casey, stroking his head and neck. His big brown eyes were dull, and he didn’t look at me.

The vet checked him over, then gave him a shot of Banamine, a pain reliev­er that reduces inflam­ma­tion. The vet told the woman wear­ing rid­ing gear that Casey was exhaust­ed but not seri­ous­ly injured.

Think­ing I’d offer to help her take him wher­ev­er he was stalled, I asked her where she was head­ed with him.

She snatched the reins out of my hands. “Well, I’m not tak­ing him any­where after the trick he pulled! He’s going straight back to the barn!”

She stormed away with­out a word of thanks to the men who tried to get him up, Lon­na, me, or the vet.

“If she doesn’t pay you, I will,” I said to the vet.

“That woman’s the train­er,” he said. “I know the own­er. She’ll pay.”

As the vet and I watched her lead Casey up Clear Val­ley, I won­dered what kind of train­er would think it was a good idea to ride a 38-year-old horse. Casey plod­ded along behind her, breath­ing hard, his head down. They turned onto a trail­head and dis­ap­peared behind a hedgerow.

I thanked the vet again for com­ing so quick­ly and for sav­ing Casey’s life. We shook hands, and he drove away.

The next day I rode Jack­son on Hid­den Hills’ trails, search­ing for Casey’s barn. I found him stand­ing in a cor­ral below High Ridge Road. He was up and eat­ing hay. Over the next few weeks, I returned to his cor­ral twice more. He seemed okay.

On a Mon­day morn­ing in late March, I rode Marge up that same trail. When I came to the cor­ral, it was emp­ty, and the fence was down.

A young boy wres­tled with a post-hole dig­ger, set­ting new posts along the old fence-line. Know­ing the answer, but hop­ing against it, I asked him what hap­pened to the horse that was penned in the corral.

“The man say the lady’s old horse, he die,” the boy said.

I stared at him for a few moments, grip­ping Marge’s reins tight­ly, my jaw clenched.

“I am sor­ry, señor.”

“Gra­cias,” I said.

I rode Marge back to my barn. I gave my hors­es extra treats that day and lin­gered with them longer than usual.

I was read­ing Paulette Jiles’ nov­el, Stormy Weath­er, the day I learned Casey had passed. That night I came to the part where Ross Everett advis­es his girl­friend not to become emo­tion­al­ly invest­ed in her horse, Smoky Joe. “Don’t get attached to a horse, Jea­nine. We always out­live them. Except the last one.” I set the book aside and thought about that passage.

I bought my first horse sev­en years ago. I have five now. I’m 77. Wil­son is 25. Arthri­tis is eat­ing away at his spine, and he has trou­ble con­trol­ling his back legs. Lily is only 15, but she has equine melanoma, arthri­tis in her hocks, and old injuries that nev­er healed right. Wil­son and Lily will prob­a­bly go before I do. Jack­son and Marge are 17. I hope to give them a close race to the fin­ish line. Dol­ly is 10. She’s prob­a­bly that last horse.

I haven’t fol­lowed Everett’s advice. I’ve giv­en my hors­es my heart. It will break when they leave me and the wound will nev­er heal, but I don’t regret forg­ing my bond with them. When they’re gone, I’ll still have sweet mem­o­ries of our part­ner­ship on thou­sands of great rides, the nick­ers that greet me when they see me com­ing, the nuz­zles on my shoul­der, the sense of peace, the com­mu­nion, the love giv­en and returned. The good times far out­weigh the immense, over­whelm­ing grief that will fall over me at the end.

I ignored Everett’s coun­sel with Casey, too. I bare­ly knew him, but some­times you can feel the spir­it of a horse with the touch of your hand. When I stroked Casey’s head and face, I sensed he was a good old soul, who had tried hard to do what was asked of him. The day he fell, he was worn down, sad, and strug­gling to find the will to make a come­back. I’m glad he suc­ceed­ed, if only for a few weeks.

His pass­ing cost me some pain, but I don’t regret lay­ing hands on him. He deserved affec­tion and respect. He was a good horse to the end.

Rest in peace, old boy.