(no subject)
Hi all.... I know it's been ages since I wrote here, but not sure I want to share it entirely with the world...
Just need to write something down and put it out there so it can stop running around in my head.
Three weeks ago, I was laid off from my job. Not quite three weeks ago, I lost Andy. And... I. Am. Struggling.
The job thing, I could almost sort of handle. There were things that were great about it, but when things went badly, it was a really unhealthy.
But losing Andy... I can't handle this. I can't accept this. He wasn't just a horse. Or even just a friend. He was my family and he owned the biggest, best piece of my soul. He was the thing that kept me going when I was in dark places and I am just lost without him.
The thing that sucks the worst about him dying is that he was young. Just fifteen. He had MANY more years to go. And for a horse who learned early to hate and be angry and defensive, he without a doubt outright LOVED more than about any other horse. He adored so many things. He had this total zest for life. More than any horse I've ever known. He was cocky, and irritatingly self assured that anything he was doing HAD to be what he was supposed to be doing.
He loved scratches. With brushes. With Fingers. With a pitchfork. You could scratch him forever, and he would sit there, stretched as far as he could, lips wigging away, or on my shoulder, returning the favor, sometimes a little too strongly. He loved the insides of his back legs itched too. He would squat down, bow his little legs out, and balance on his tiptoes to get his thighs scratched.
He loved his face stroked. If I walked up to him and laid my hands on his forehead, I could just cup my hands and run them over his eyes and he would just relax and put his head down into my chest.
He loved to zone out and lick me from my hands, all the way up to my face. It was totally weird. But... When the horse who could hate everything likes you enough to decide he should just lick the crap out of you, you take it as the compliment that it is.
He loved to touch things. He loved to grab hold of my sleeve and shake and flop my arm around.
He liked his teeth patted. If I held my hand up in front of his muzzle, he would curl his lips back and let do that stupid indian imitation thing.
He liked playing with 2L pop bottles in his stall. He loved that crackling noise they made when he bit them. And he found it fun to take a bottle and manage to shove it between the bars of his stall. As a younger horse, he loved playing with a frisbee. he would flip it wrong side up, and splash around in his water bucket with it, shoveling scoops of water out.
He HATED it when I would take my index finger, put it on his neck or his shoulder, and then blow a raspberry. Made him FURIOUS.
He loved to work. He really loved to drive. I wish I had driven him more because he really liked it. But I didn't because I was just totally nervous about it. I used to worry about that day that was going to come where his body wouldn't let him do a job anymore, what was I going to do? He never would have handled retirement. He didn't have it in him. I thought that this decision was just a little further down the road.
He loved food. A lot. He could have a belly full of dinner, a pile of hay in the corner of the stall, and would still arch his neck and model and nicker if he thought there was some additional tiny tidbit that might end up as his very own. He loved peppermints. He also loved Pop Rocks. And that's just awesome.
He hated going outside with other horses. But he loved to go out and graze if I would just stand there with him. I wish I did that more.
I was his herd. He was mine. I miss our herd.
I am so so grateful that in his last two days, I didn't have a job so I could just be there with him. We walked for hours, hoping he would just feel better. And I told him how much he was loved, and what having him in my life meant to me. I told him everything I needed to, and apologized for the things I needed to. It was hard, but I think he understood.
On a spiritual note, this really clarifies things for me:
If there is a higher power, either he/she/it is either one sick, sadistic piece of shit to torture my best friend for two days and then kill him. What the fuck good could possibly come of that? Give him so much pain that even with the maximum dosage of pain medication, it was still unbearable?
the only other option then is if there is some higher power, I have apparently screwed things up so horribly to deserve this.
Either way, I. Am. So. Angry. The vet said he had a 50/50 chance of surviving. He could have just as easily survived as not. He should have lived, because he was a good.
My friends are trying to help. I have so many horses available to me, I don't have enough hours in the day. But riding them leaves me feeling so lonely. None of them is even close to him. They aren't mine, I am not theirs. Tomorrow I am starting a part time, under the table gig working for a trainer, and I am just hoping I can make it through a couple hours at work without turning into an emotional wreck.
And with my situation being as it is, I can't afford to be this big of a wreck. I can't afford to be a heartbeat, one thought away from tears. I need to be able to walk into an interview and sell the hell out of myself so that what remains of my life doesn't dissolve in a puff of smoke, and right now, I don't have that in me.
Just need to write something down and put it out there so it can stop running around in my head.
Three weeks ago, I was laid off from my job. Not quite three weeks ago, I lost Andy. And... I. Am. Struggling.
The job thing, I could almost sort of handle. There were things that were great about it, but when things went badly, it was a really unhealthy.
But losing Andy... I can't handle this. I can't accept this. He wasn't just a horse. Or even just a friend. He was my family and he owned the biggest, best piece of my soul. He was the thing that kept me going when I was in dark places and I am just lost without him.
The thing that sucks the worst about him dying is that he was young. Just fifteen. He had MANY more years to go. And for a horse who learned early to hate and be angry and defensive, he without a doubt outright LOVED more than about any other horse. He adored so many things. He had this total zest for life. More than any horse I've ever known. He was cocky, and irritatingly self assured that anything he was doing HAD to be what he was supposed to be doing.
He loved scratches. With brushes. With Fingers. With a pitchfork. You could scratch him forever, and he would sit there, stretched as far as he could, lips wigging away, or on my shoulder, returning the favor, sometimes a little too strongly. He loved the insides of his back legs itched too. He would squat down, bow his little legs out, and balance on his tiptoes to get his thighs scratched.
He loved his face stroked. If I walked up to him and laid my hands on his forehead, I could just cup my hands and run them over his eyes and he would just relax and put his head down into my chest.
He loved to zone out and lick me from my hands, all the way up to my face. It was totally weird. But... When the horse who could hate everything likes you enough to decide he should just lick the crap out of you, you take it as the compliment that it is.
He loved to touch things. He loved to grab hold of my sleeve and shake and flop my arm around.
He liked his teeth patted. If I held my hand up in front of his muzzle, he would curl his lips back and let do that stupid indian imitation thing.
He liked playing with 2L pop bottles in his stall. He loved that crackling noise they made when he bit them. And he found it fun to take a bottle and manage to shove it between the bars of his stall. As a younger horse, he loved playing with a frisbee. he would flip it wrong side up, and splash around in his water bucket with it, shoveling scoops of water out.
He HATED it when I would take my index finger, put it on his neck or his shoulder, and then blow a raspberry. Made him FURIOUS.
He loved to work. He really loved to drive. I wish I had driven him more because he really liked it. But I didn't because I was just totally nervous about it. I used to worry about that day that was going to come where his body wouldn't let him do a job anymore, what was I going to do? He never would have handled retirement. He didn't have it in him. I thought that this decision was just a little further down the road.
He loved food. A lot. He could have a belly full of dinner, a pile of hay in the corner of the stall, and would still arch his neck and model and nicker if he thought there was some additional tiny tidbit that might end up as his very own. He loved peppermints. He also loved Pop Rocks. And that's just awesome.
He hated going outside with other horses. But he loved to go out and graze if I would just stand there with him. I wish I did that more.
I was his herd. He was mine. I miss our herd.
I am so so grateful that in his last two days, I didn't have a job so I could just be there with him. We walked for hours, hoping he would just feel better. And I told him how much he was loved, and what having him in my life meant to me. I told him everything I needed to, and apologized for the things I needed to. It was hard, but I think he understood.
On a spiritual note, this really clarifies things for me:
If there is a higher power, either he/she/it is either one sick, sadistic piece of shit to torture my best friend for two days and then kill him. What the fuck good could possibly come of that? Give him so much pain that even with the maximum dosage of pain medication, it was still unbearable?
the only other option then is if there is some higher power, I have apparently screwed things up so horribly to deserve this.
Either way, I. Am. So. Angry. The vet said he had a 50/50 chance of surviving. He could have just as easily survived as not. He should have lived, because he was a good.
My friends are trying to help. I have so many horses available to me, I don't have enough hours in the day. But riding them leaves me feeling so lonely. None of them is even close to him. They aren't mine, I am not theirs. Tomorrow I am starting a part time, under the table gig working for a trainer, and I am just hoping I can make it through a couple hours at work without turning into an emotional wreck.
And with my situation being as it is, I can't afford to be this big of a wreck. I can't afford to be a heartbeat, one thought away from tears. I need to be able to walk into an interview and sell the hell out of myself so that what remains of my life doesn't dissolve in a puff of smoke, and right now, I don't have that in me.