I walked out of the pavilion after my lesson Monday morning to see the barn owner C. holding a syringe. That’s never good news. I asked who was sick?

“Red is showing mild colic,” she replied grimly.

Uh-oh.

Red is her heart horse, the baby she got to build into a show horse, who she competed and won with until an injury forced him into early retirement. She’s had a hard time just keeping him pasture sound, `but it was never a question of it was worth it. Some horses just have your whole heart; you can love others but there is none quite like them.

I drove home & went to work, hoping that he had a quick recovery. Colic is a general term for gastrointestinal issues in horses. They lack the ability to throw up, so what might be a miserable night of vomiting for a human can be fatal to a horse, or it can be mild, or anything in-between. When I was a kid I remember colic being a death sentence; now it seems that the prognosis is much better although it still has a tragic end sometimes. I imagined that Red would bounce back. Despite his history of injuries he’s a big, solid, strong red boy full of fire.

A few hours later I got a text that she was taking him to the hospital. Well, shit. Red can’t have surgery for a litany of reasons; but still, a hospital has more treatment options than the barn. C. stays with him for most of the rest of the day.

The next morning I get to the barn and tell her if she isn’t up to a lesson, it’s fine. We end up turning Griffy loose in the arena and just talk. She hasn’t heard anything all night, and when she called she couldn’t really get anyone on the phone. Still, we both kind of feel like if he was worse they would have reached out, so maybe silence is a good sign. She’s really just hanging out until feeding is done, then she & her husband will head back to the hospital. I offer to drop her off, but he’s almost done by the time I put Griffy away, so I head home.

I haven’t been sitting at my desk very long when I get a text – it’s bad. His gall bladder is flipped over. He can’t have surgery to fix it. Either he’ll flip it back over on his own by rolling around, or….

The vet at the hospital says give him a few hours. Her regular vet says it’s time. She doesn’t know what to do.

Our friend M. was scheduled to put her rescue mule to sleep today. He has laminitis, a condition where the hoof wall begins to separate from the actual hoof structure. It’s painful and often fatal, although sometimes treatable depending on the root cause. He had laminitis and there just weren’t a lot of great treatment options for him. M. messages me and says she’s heading to the hospital to be with C & Red. I call in sick to work and do the same.

I feel really bad on the drive there, because, it honestly didn’t occur me to offer to go. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone there, but that doesn’t mean that’s the right way to do it. And honestly, deep down, I *would* want someone there, but I would be too afraid to let anyone see me be that vulnerable. I should have thought to offer to go, or to just go myself, but I’m at least glad M. thought of it.

They point me to his stall. The smell of the barn is awful and overwhelming – like the smell of a kennel but 100x stronger. I get it – there are sick animals, there needs to be strong cleaners, and it’s not like hospitals smell amazing, but I feel bad for the sensitive noses of all the horses there. C and her husband are in Red’s stall. I go in and I’m shocked by how miserable he looks. I knew he was in bad shape, but…he’s covered in rub spots from getting up & down, thrashing around. His eyes are swollen from the shavings being blown around by a powerful fan to help him keep cool. My own eyes instantly get irritated. He’s wearing a halter with a muzzle on it, and has an IV in his neck that coils up to a bag of fluid hanging from the ceiling. He looks wretched and uncomfortable.

I’ve never been inside an equine hospital before – when Griffy had his MRI, a vet tech met us in the parking lot and lead him back, then brought him out when we picked him up. As I watch Red pace, I can’t get the image of Griffy being in his place out of my head and I start to tear up.

The vet comes & talks to her & tells her that he needs to flip his gallbladder back over. He keeps getting up and down, circling, and trying to roll because it’s uncomfortable, but that’s his best chance of being able to do it. The chances are 50-50. I privately think it’s less than that, but I don’t say anything. The vet leaves, vet techs come in and out, adjust his IV, and leave. They don’t say anything, but each one gives Red a gentle pat or scratch. M. arrives and we all hug.

All we can do now is wait. Across from Red is a mother with a little black foal who is adorable. Next to her is another mother with a huge chestnut baby….mom looks tired. And next to Red is a little roan gelding, with a black mane and black nose. I pace up & down the aisle, and as I walk by the roan’s stall, he stick his nose to the bars and lets out a huge breath – not quite a snort, but almost. I stop in front of him and without turning to face him, I exhale. He lets out another huge breath. I stand there breathing with him, thinking I am offering him comfort. When I look up and meet his eye, I realize *HE* was comforting *ME*. I give him a grateful smile and think about how we don’t deserve horses.

C. is trying to decide what to do. Put him down now or give him time & see if he recovers? He isn’t better and he isn’t worse, but it’s been going on for over a day. I stay silent. She asks for our thoughts. I start to answer but the vet comes in and I’m relieved I don’t have to say anything. I want to tell her to let him go, but what would I do if it really was Griffy there? I can’t honestly say I would let him go. I leave the stall and stare down the hallway. A horse with the same coloring as Talos walks by and I turn away.

The vet leaves and I look in Red’s stall. C. is lovingly brushing the shavings out of his mane & tail. When she carefully separates his mane into little sections and starts cutting them off, I lose it. The tears I’ve been barely holding back start flowing as I picture the day I’ll be cutting snowy white braids off of a golden neck. M. gives me a hug and we just stand there sobbing. Red lies down & C. and her husband sit by his head and just cry and stroke his face.

M has to leave to get to her own vet appointment. We were supposed to go with her, but C. isn’t leaving. I look at her, asking an impossible question.

“I already made the decision,” she says. “Stay with someone who still has to make it.”

I hope I’m that good of a person someday.

She leaves and C. decides we’re going across the street to the Mexican restaurant. None of us have eaten, and we are all just staring at Red with this heavy emotion that is certainly not helping. She says she dreams of coming back and him being fine and we all quietly hope. Her husband looks at me and says it….”What would you do?” I answer him honestly. “I’d like to tell you I’d let him go, but….if it was Griffy, I’d wait.” He nods.

We go to lunch; it’s around 2pm and I ask the waitress for a drink menu. She gives me a look; I don’t even care. C. & I both get huge margaritas. The conversation meanders away from Red and back to Red; it helps to have processing time away from the heavy atmosphere of the stall.

We head back and Red looks….better. Not great, but more alert and upright. I yawn and he yawns at the same time, which is a good sign. C. goes to get the vet who comes and takes him back for more testing. I am starting to have a little hope. Maybe he’s pulling out of it? Maybe his gallbladder flipped?

The vet takes some fluid from his stomach and tests it for a specific enzyme (I forget what) and examines him and tells us….it’s not good news. The enzyme level is double what it was this morning. His bowel is expanding, which gives temporary relief, but it means it’s heading towards rupturing which will be incredibly painful. “I think it’s time to call it,” he says. It seems so cruel to get this news after a few brief moments of hope.

As we leave the exam room, C. asks me to go into the office & call Rainbow Bridge, which is a private cremation service. I’m a little surprised she would trust me with that, but then I think maybe she just wants to her last few moments to be private. I go in the office & make arrangements for him to be picked up, then I go sit near the small yard where he’s being put down until it’s over.

Loss, heartbreak, and grief are the price we pay for loving something as wild and free and wonderful as a horse; it’s worth the price, but that doesn’t make the heartbreak any less when they are gone, especially when it happens suddenly as it so often does. I hope Red is galloping free among the stars.