Tag: Euthanasia

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That Day in May…

Exactly a year ago today I was told by Flash’s vet that it was time to consider euthanasia.

Being the nostalgic, time/ date memorizer individual that I am (see my previous post “Nostalgia”), all I could think about today was what happened last year on this day…

It was a cold morning, snowing heavily. The vet was conducting a follow up examination. I’d been feeding Flash grain twice a day in the hopes of him gaining weight, but to no avail. It didn’t matter how much I gave him; he’d only put on a few pounds, but it was not enough. His ribs and hip bones were clearly visible, a far cry from the fat, sleek pony I’d grown up with.

It’s strange, how the human mind can almost selectively shut out, block, deflect, or anticipate bad news. I think I knew, deep down, what her assessment of my horse was going to be. But the mind stuffed it away, so I went about haltering Flash, and leading him into the indoor wash rack, to be out of the snow.

The vet took his off his blanket, and took one good long look. Flash, ever the people pony, loved his vet, and gently nudged her with his nose. She smiled, patted Flash and walked around him. “If you haven’t already fed him yet, go ahead and grab his feed and we’ll talk.”

I went to the grain storage room and filled up his flat bucket. I remember consciously stalling, deliberately taking longer than normal to fill the bucket. But even then, no clear, conscious thought came to my mind. But I felt dread brewing within my body.

Back in the barn, Flash set upon his food immediately, happily making a mess as he always did. A giant lump had taken residence in my throat.

The vet gave a sad smile, and put her hands in her jacket pockets. I don’t remember her exact words, but they were something like this: “Well, based on the frequency and amount you’re feeding Flash, he should be easily gaining, but he hasn’t. He looks about the same. So it’s time that we consider that option…the time to say goodbye, to have him avoid any pain or incidents.”

Already I felt like I was strangling; I knew damn well what she meant. “I-I know,” I croaked out, nodding as the tears, hot and fast, came streaming down my face. The vet then looked directly into my eyes, and I remember how much compassion and sadness I saw there.

“His condition…there hasn’t been any lack of trying on your part, not at all. You’ve done everything you can to help him, but in the end he’s not going to improve. And we don’t want him to get to the point where he’ll be so weak and helpless that something bad happens to him, and he can’t help himself. He’s just old, and there’s no cure for that.”

I could barely speak, I was crying so hard. My body was shaking. I could feel and hear the blood rushing through my ears and my head; my heart slammed against my chest.

“Flash may be 28, but in human years he’s 94. So he’s had a long, happy life and that’s what counts. And he deserves to go out with dignity and in peace.”

I was practically hyperventilating at this point. The vet’s assistant was trying her best not to cry, and kept her gaze on the floor, though she kept patting Flash on his neck.

“It doesn’t have to be today,” my vet said, gently taking me by the arm. I nodded, utterly relieved. I wanted—needed—time to say goodbye, to prepare myself.

“H-h-how m-much l-longer do I-I have?” I stuttered out. The vet looked me directly in the eye.

“No longer than two months.”

****

Two months. The rest of May, of course, then June, then July. July. That’s when…my mind whirled.

It’s truly bizarre, how we discussed Flash’s eventual death and means of it, as he contentedly munched away, oblivious.

“He may be physically declining, but his disposition is the same as ever. He looks happy to me…and he certainly hasn’t lost his appetite!” my vet exclaimed, and the three of us all managed a laugh.

“This is the way you want to remember him, as he is. No one wants to say goodbye, but one shouldn’t wait too long, for if something happens…that’s the last memory you’ll have.”

I agreed with everything the vet told me, and accepted it. It hurt, my heart throbbed, but I knew she was right. I’ve heard stories of people being angry or indignant when euthanasia is suggested by their vet. I didn’t feel any of those emotions at all. I just felt…tragic. Defeated.

Somehow, I’m surprised I even mentioned it then and there, but I asked about burial options. My voice was low and flat. The vet gave me three options, and estimates for each: pasture burial somewhere in eastern CO, cremation, or burial up in the mountains by Evergreen. I immediately noted she did not mention the highly upsetting option of rendering, which is basically when a horse’s corpse is used for pet food. Not that there’s any meat on my horse, was my dark, twisted thought. It didn’t hit me until later that rendering would be unfeasible anyway, given the chemicals used in euthanasia.

***

The follow-up lasted about a half hour. I noticed how, as we all talked, other riders ducked their heads whenever they passed us; they knew what we were talking about. I don’t blame them. No one wants to hear, much less stick around, listening about euthanasia. As any animal lover knows, you don’t want to ever have to think about it.

The vet gave me the biggest hug before she left. “In the time being, he can have absolutely whatever he wants. Spoil him rotten!” was her parting advice. I agreed wholeheartedly.

And last summer, that is exactly what I did.

***

Once the vet and her assistant had driven off, I let Flash finish the rest of his feed. I felt dazed, while sobs shook my body. I hugged him before I put him back in his pasture. I found it nearly impossible to leave him. I walked back home in the snow. I burst into tears again when I told my parents the news. My mom promptly started crying, and my dad looked grim. I told them exactly what the vet had said, and they sadly agreed too. Together, we vowed to make Flash’s last summer on earth the best. And I am so pleased to say that we accomplished that.

As summer approaches ever closer, I know I’m only going to become more nostalgic, which is completely normal. Last summer I spent every single day with Flash. For whole days I was at the barn. I miss that. I miss Flash. But as I’ve said before, I know he is at peace. I feel it in my very being. And this knowledge, along with writing, this will sustain me once July swings around. If you catch me gazing into space, a faraway look in my eyes…I’m thinking, seeing, my beloved horse.

~LMC

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Missing Fuzzy

Many of you are aware that I lost my horse, Flash, a few months ago. On the day he peacefully passed, I composed what is, in my opinion, the best-written and most heartrending work I’ve ever done. There were tears, yes, as I began writing his tribute within hours of the event, and yet as I wrote, I felt…peace. I still believe I was in some state of shock–the dreadful thing had happened, had come to pass–yet my mind was acting in self-preservation mode, to get things done. Writing is catharsis and writing my beloved Fuzzy’s eulogy proved extremely healing. I wanted to acknowledge every important little detail about the time we spent together, the happy memories made. And of course, the everlasting impressions this equine had not just on me, but on everyone, he knew.

I still, and will forever miss, my best, furriest, fuzziest friend. As I said in my eulogy, “I will miss (insert event/ feeling).” I still catch myself thinking, “I’ll go to the barn,” but then reality strikes quick, and a weight of sadness descends upon me…

BUT:

I take GREAT comfort in knowing that Flash spent his last summer on earth surrounded by family and friends, being spoiled every day with tons of treats and attention. I thought I’d spoiled my horse before but was it tenfold this summer? On top of receiving grain every day, he grazed on the lushest grass and ate carrots and apples smothered in molasses. I let him wander wherever he wanted, as he was always so curious, interested in his surroundings, and making new friends (be it human, equine, feline, or canine). As one of the girls who rode him said, “Flash reminds me of how older folks eat dinner, and then afterward go on a walk.” That was exactly it. As soon as he’d finished inhaling the last bit of feed, he’d start wandering somewhere, usually over to the “Hay Buffet” (the hay trolley), or to a patch of verdant grass. I’d follow him around, and it was both amusing and heartwarming to observe his wanderings. If he crossed paths with someone, he’d stop to say hello, and was often rewarded with kind pats and treats.

I miss my furry equine friend. I miss him every day. Yet in my sadness, there is one feeling absent—agony. I have no remorse, no regret, in choosing the why and how we let him go. Flash was old, 94 in human years (!), and had had a long and very, very happy life.

Choosing when and how to say goodbye to an animal friend is always extremely tough. What made it even more difficult was that Flash was still Flash: the happy, carefree, loving pony I’d always known. Mentally, he was all there. But physically he was declining. My dad and I used to joke that Flash looked like a “middle-aged guy with a gut”–slightly overweight at times, but very healthy. But Flash was shrinking, despite his great appetite. And no matter how much we fed him, nothing worked. Having been diagnosed with Cushing’s disease a few years ago, a disorder in which the pituitary gland overproduces cortisol (stress hormone), it is also possible there may have been tumors in other parts of his body. Regardless, Flash was old, and his time was limited. Mentally alert and intelligent as ever, yet his body was slowly failing. It was only a matter of time before something catastrophic happened: Flash collapsing, too weak to get up, in fear, and in pain.

Despite my constant care, Flash was not going to improve in the end. I couldn’t cure him. In late spring the vet looked him over and decided it was time to make that decision. I cried as she discussed why she thought it best, but I understood. She made it clear I could spend a few more months with my pony and spoil him rotten.

In those last months, I researched euthanasia, which means “kind death.” A form of lethal injection, most vets administer a sedative first so that the animal is made unconscious, unaware of what is happening. The lethal shot follows immediately after, taking less than a minute for the animal to slide from unconsciousness into death. There is no pain at all; it is the kindest, quietest way to go. More than once I’ve heard that euthanasia is the final and ultimate act of love, in choosing to have a beloved creature avoid any suffering.

In the minutes leading up to that final goodbye, my vet, assigned to administer the euthanasia…this makes me cry to write it…hugged me tight as I sobbed my heart out. She said, “Know that you will never have to worry about discovering him in his pasture, injured and in fear. Know you will never have to see him suffer, that he will never have to know pain.”

Somehow, my voice beyond raw, I replied, “He’s lived a long and extremely happy life.”

The vet looked me full in the face. “If only all animals could be so lucky.”

Amen.

-LMC

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CONFRONTING REALITY: VISITING THE BARN THE DAY OF

If you are wondering if I have been able to bring myself to the barn since Flash passed away (I still can’t bring myself to type that four letter word), the answer is yes. I went back the same day he was put to sleep. I never even thought I’d want to go back the same day, but I did. I needed to. Flash drew his last breath at approximately 9:17am; I went back around late afternoon, early evening. In the tidal wave of emotions accompanying the event, I’d left his feed bag and brushes from his last morning meal in the same spot we always fed him this summer, near his pasture gate. I figured no one would touch those things, but I wasn’t going to risk it. And like a magnet, I felt the equestrian center pulling me back. It honestly felt like a palpable current was tugging at me.

So I found myself walking the short distance down to the stables; it was as if my body, not my mind, was in control. I’d spent the majority of the hours after it happened pouring my soul out into his eulogy; it had to be perfect. And writing, it helped so much that day. I cannot stress enough how writing helped me heal, even on the very day of it all.

When I was done and I’d posted it on Facebook, I just had to go back. And as it is, where the euthanasia took place is right near where the walking path ends and where I step over a small fence marking barn property. Selecting this spot was a conscious decision; you don’t want someone unsuspecting to come upon euthanization, especially children. The barn manager and I talked beforehand and agreed this was the most discreet area to do it.

As I approached the fence, I felt caught in a world of “Before” and “After.” Before, I’d always crossed this fence on my way to see Flash, feed him, let him wander. Now, it was time to confront reality.

A few paces beyond the fence was where I had said “see you later” to my friend. I refused to say the word “goodbye” during my last talk with him. Gazing at the sandy ground, I could discern exactly where it had occurred.

I took a breath. Before I could stop myself, I sat on the very ground where Flash had taken his last breath, where his body had lain immediately once the euthanasia had done its swift job. I dug my fingers down into the scratchy earth, and began to cry. But I was quick to remind myself that Flash’s soul would not occupy this spot; he was elsewhere, everywhere. So in less than a minute, I was up and walking.

But I wasn’t just walking. My stride was purposeful, and I marched into the tack room. My locker was decorated with posters and flowers. My parents, cousin Nate, and Elizabeth and Madeline (who lovingly cared and rode Flash when I was away at school) had put these up that morning. I’d made two posters the night before, each with pictures of either Flash and I, or Madeline. One of these posters adorned my locker, the other was at the gate of Flash’s pasture.

I then walked over to Flash’s pasture, and immediately saw that a new horse had been put in. I’m not going to lie, I felt anger. It felt like Flash had just been…replaced. It was stupid, I know, but it hurt. And it didn’t help that this new horse was obnoxiously banging his hooves against the gate begging for attention.

Not only that, but the poster we’d taped to the fence was already on the ground, torn off by the wind, I guess. I did my best to dust it off, and re-taped it back on the fence. The flowers we’d left had also fallen over, so I re-arranged those too.

Ignoring the new horse, I walked to where Flash had had his last full meal. Bits of feed lay in the grass, and his brushes and hoof pick nearby. I’d cried as he ate that morning, knowing it was the last time I’d ever brush him, ever feed him, last everything. Once again, I just sat down, alternating between sadness and shock, but never agony. I FELT my boy’s spirit was, and is, at peace.

“Was it only just this morning?” I whispered softly, gazing at the foothills, where the morning sunlight had cast them into gold. In the late afternoon light, they were now a dark emerald green, and I marveled at how it could still be the same day. For five solid minutes, I was lost in my thoughts.

Some movement at the pasture gate caught my attention. Looking up, I saw Flash’s best friend, his pasture mate, a beautiful sorrel mare. The new horse was gone. The mare’s head hung low, so unlike her normal, bright expression. She looked, quite honestly, sad. As if she knew. I unlatched the gate and stepped in, and petted her silken mane and neck.

“Thank you for being a friend to my boy,” I told her. This whole summer, those two ponies often ate at the same feeder, and I often saw them standing together . Not once did I ever see them try to bite or kick each other. The mare was always happy to see me, and she was always content to hang out with Flash. I buried my face in her mane and hugged her tight, and didn’t let go for a few minutes. She stood still like a statue, the two of us mourning as I let myself cry. I am forever grateful for her kindness, and that moment we had together where we both acknowledged our loss.

~LMC