If I had known how little time I still had with my handsome boy, I wonder if my post would have been written differently.
For the last couple years, Gordon has indulged in a warm, sloppy, mushy, mixture of soaked senior equine feed, alfalfa/timothy pellets, and bran twice a day. He could hear me coming before he could see me, and would whinny in impatience as I walked down the barn to deliver his meal. But that morning was different.
As I walked into the barn on June 8, I didn’t hear his familiar voice and I couldn’t see his head searching for me down the aisle way. It was a beautiful day, so I assumed he was still out in the pasture enjoying the sunshine.
But as I came closer, I saw Gordon’s body, lying completely still on the barn floor. My stomach sank and fear started to take over. I dropped the bucket with Gordon’s breakfast and ran, panicking as I called his name over and over with no response. I tore open the gate and with a single, startled movement he stood up and looked at me, confused. I placed my hand over my mouth and let tears stream down my face. I thought I had lost him. Relieved, I went over to snuggle with him for just a moment. But before I got to him he went back down. Something was wrong.
My veterinarian was out of town, so I hastily called several others in the area to see who I could get ahold of first. The first one I heard back from was a veterinarian who had helped me in several colic emergencies when I first brought Gordon home all those years ago. He was on his way. I had also called my mom, telling her that Gordon was down and the vet had been called. She left work to be with me, and it meant everything.
I stayed with him until the vet came. Gordon could barely stand and when he tried, he’d lay right back down. His eyes were hazy and he acted so confused. It was as if he didn’t know where he was. He wanted to eat but it was like he didn’t know how. He didn’t even give my mother a hard time, which he got particular enjoyment in doing. He seemed to still recognize me though – whenever I moved, he’d follow me with his tired eyes. My heart felt so full, but so broken because deep down I knew that I would be asked to say goodbye to half of my heart.
It was determined that my sweet boy had suffered from a neurological event, likely a stroke. There was nothing that could be done for him.
I knew what had to be done, but it didn’t make it any easier.
We laid Gordon to rest that morning, and buried him under a shady tree near the barn.
I don’t remember much about the rest of that day, or the days that followed. I remember feeling exhausted, lost, and empty. I remember trying to eat a granola bar in the front seat of my car, not knowing if I would be able to keep it down. I remember walking across the lawn to my parents house after burying him and needing my mother’s help to get there. I remember immeasurable sadness, knowing that I would never see him, hear him, or touch him again. I remember feeling so much pain, as if my heart, my soul, was actually breaking. I remember so many tears, tissues, and tight chests and headaches from crying so hard. I remember how beautiful that day was, and that he couldn’t have chosen a better one to leave this world, even though I begged him not to.
In situations like this, it can be so hard to know if you did the “right thing.” A horse that cannot stand, is a horse that cannot live. I am blessed because I know I made the right decision, and I will never take that for granted. I will never take the lessons Gordon taught me for granted. I will never take my family for granted.
I haven’t posted in months; it’s taken me as long to begin to function and process this new life without Gordon. It’s taken me months to even think about writing this post, let alone sit down and actually let the words flow through my fingers. I needed time to grieve, to think, to breathe, to move forward. Because I’ll never move on.
I want to give a special thanks to Chris Parfitt of Tassel Hill Veterinary Clinic for being so kind and taking such wonderful care of Gordon (and me) during his final hours. To my mother who is always there to support me emotionally, physically, mentally, and beyond. To my dad, uncle, and cousin who took such gentle care burying him and offering soft words of condolence. To the numerous friends and family members that understood how special our relationship was, and reached out offering their sentiments and support, while also giving me space to grieve. To my friend ReBecca, for the impromptu photo shoot a year or two ago that gave me beautiful & treasured photos that captured the essence of each of us. And, as silly as it sounds, to my pup Erin, for letting me cry without judgement and snuggle without fuss when I needed it.
I was very blessed to have loved Gordon for as long as I did. My heart still aches, the tears still come, but it’s gets a little easier as time goes by. I will continue to miss him for the rest of my life, but I am so lucky that I was given something so special to miss.
personal breathing space 