07/18/2023
Sometimes, Horses just die.
This beautiful piece was penned by new HWH board member and physician, Beth Jensen in response to a recent passing at the farm. A privately owned horse named Audi passed at University of Florida after what appeared to be a minor injury leaving everyone involved in shock. Her words beautifully explain the loss that we all feel when we have to say goodbye.
Please take a moment to read this beautiful piece.
“Life and Death in the Hospital, Life and Death on the Horse Farm.
The phone rings in the middle of the night. This can't be good. I force open my eyes and groggily mumble into the phone. The floor nurse responds, "I am so sorry, doctor, we lost him…"
This was common, even expected, during my medical residency. I had trained for this. Part of taking care of the sick is knowing some will not live. I learned how to break the news with compassion to family members and guard my heart against the tragedies that unfolded almost daily in front of me. I was prepared.
Last night a similar scene played out on the horse farm where my son is a working student. A horse had been injured and taken to surgery. He had been recovering well. But then, in the dark hour just before the sun rose, while all the other horses slept safely in their stalls or dew-covered fields, before the first stirrings of morning chores, the phone rang….
Everyone in the barn is devastated by the sharp pain of acute loss. Sorrow hangs heavy in the air as gentle sobs can be heard from the tack room, and the shovel strikes the barn floor just a little more sharply than usual. The barn dog treads lightly with her head slanted downward, unsure why all the people around her no longer have joy in their steps as they turn the horses out to pasture. And I am left to wonder why this is so very different from a hospital's clinical, almost cold death scene.
From the start, I was taught to stay emotionally distant from my patients. Never treat family or friends. Remain objective, make clear, unemotional, scientific decisions. Keep a clear head and protect myself emotionally. Horse trainers are taught the opposite. They need to connect with the horse physically, emotionally, and mentally. Horse and rider need to function as a team with movements so unified that it is hard to tell one from the other. The trainer relies on the hundreds of hours spent with each horse to pick up on subtle changes in movement and behavior that indicate an emerging problem or lead to a spectacular ride in the show ring. There is no emotional detachment. The pair depends on connection, trust, and an emotional bond- and yes, love. And so it was with the horse that died last night. Even those only peripherally involved in his care had spent many hours in close contact with him, feeding, grooming, and building a bond. There is no professional distancing, no chance of remaining objective. The only choice is to get close to the animal, so close that it puts your heart at risk of breaking. So the phone rings and the heart breaks.
The grief of losing a beloved companion still does not account for the whole of the emotions that are as thick as the hay dust settling on the barn railings and as oppressive as the mid-afternoon sun. The additional burden is knowing the horse depended utterly on his human companions to care for and keep him safe. Ultimately, people make their own decisions and usually care for themselves in the safety of their own homes. Doctors do not shoulder the entire burden of an individual's care. In contrast, a horse trainer is responsible for every aspect of the horse's well-being and safety every minute of the day. Horses can't judge the danger for themselves. They spook and jump over (or through) fences, they can lie down and get stuck (cast) in the stall, or get hurt in all manner of ways, even when the conditions for their safety are optimal. So when tragedy strikes, the trainer, who did everything right, is left wondering what else could have been done, mingling guilt with insurmountable grief. It is a considerable burden to bear.
And adding to that, a horse cannot tell you what he wants. He cannot consent to surgery or discuss alternatives. A young mare cannot tell her new foal how much she loves him one last time. An aging stallion cannot tell his people that the pain is too much and it is time to let him go. As a doctor, these discussions and living wills guide me. The people who know and love these horses make these hard decisions by reading the degree of fear and pain they see in their horse's eyes, guided by years of experience and expert veterinary advice. They hope to convey their love to their horse, comfort the animal, and let the suffering creature know they are trying to help. If they know the end is near, they stand vigil with the horse, cradling her head in their arms, stroking her mane. They hope the horse will know comfort and love during her last breaths. But that is not what happened with the horse that died last night. He was recovering well at the university hospital, eating and drinking. He looked fine at his last check less than an hour before he died. No one was with him when he passed. Those who loved him most did not get to say goodbye. The pain and grief of all who knew the magnificent horse, young promising life cut tragically short, is again multiplied.
The generous, loving hearts of the equestrians who loved him have been devastatingly broken. And they know it will happen again. Each secretly steals an extra moment with their favorite horse on this day. Their favorite, what equestrians call their "heart horse," the horse that has captured the love of his rider above all other horses. Each rider silently slips their heart horse an extra treat and gives her an extra pat, knowing they will someday lose the equine love of a lifetime. All except the young woman who lost her heart horse in the darkest hours before the dawn.
Author's note: I have repeatedly said I am not a horse person. However, the tears I have shed today learning of the loss of a young, beautiful, talented horse whose life was cut short by a tragic accident might suggest that it is changing. I will never be an equestrian, but I might become my own version of a horse person. “
Thank you Beth! We are humbled and honored to have you as part of the Horses Without Humans Rescue Organization team!
Silver Quarter Acres is a full-care equestrian center. We offer all-discipline boarding and training services, centrally located east of Golden.
