(no subject)
On monday night, I lost my best friend. He was the fuzziest, sweetest creature I've ever come across and he came in to my life when I was twelve. It wasn't love at first sight, I found him a little intimidating, but after we started to get used to each other I realized that he was the one, and I've never felt as much about anyone as I have about my horse Sleepy.
He was five years old when we bought him, and he'd been working an industrial cattle ranch, but he was so, so gentle. We all joked that putting him in an english saddle and teaching him to jump was like taking a hick to the big city, but he was such a natural. He was so patient with my fears, and I tried to be patient with his, but often in those early years we ended up scaring each other. Eventually we learned to trust each other.
We went to horse shows and spent a lot of time at the trainer's place. We went out on the trail, rode through the old orange groves and galloped up hills so we could see the view. When I went to college, he came with me, and I stopped caring about jumping higher and having the perfect form, and we would just go for rides. I think he liked that best. I certainly did. I've never known anyone but animals to be completely themselves, and it's rare for them to show you their selves so openly, but Sleepy did. He had such a big heart, and he loved people. He loved to have his cheeks petted, and his chin and his ears scratched. He loved it when I would scratch his neck in the right place, he'd lean so much he'd almost fall over. He had a bright white blaze on his face, and when you brushed his face he would sneeze about fifteen times and wipe his nose on your shirt. He loved being fed treats, and would always be so careful not to bite your hand when you were feeding them to him. He had such soft lips, and would give me little kiss-nibbles whenever I scratched his chin.
He stayed at my parents' house when I moved to London. He and Monkey Business, the pony, would run around the arena in the front yard and cause all kinds of trouble-- I think Sleepy was the only horse who would have put up with Monkey's constant biting and badgering. They would eat oranges off the nearby trees and sapotes when they fell to the ground, and they'd roll in the dirt and buck and play and Sleepy would taunt Monkey because he could reach the grass and Monkey couldn't. Whenever I came home he'd be the first one to come to the fence to say hello, and he'd rub his dirty face on my shoulder. I wish I had been home more often. I thought we'd have more time together. I'm moving back in September, and I was so looking forward to being around him again. He was such a sweet boy, he never held it against me that I'd been away.
Early on Monday morning he was probably having a really nice roll in the dirt, when he twisted his intestines up in a big knot. This is one of nature's greatest evolutionary flaws, the fact that horses' guts are so flexible. My dad noticed he wasn't eating breakfast so he called the vet. The damage was already done, but we didn't know it yet, but when the vet got there he suspected that it wasn't ordinary colic and recommended we send him to the veterinary hospital in Chino.
My mom was here visiting me, she was about to leave on tuesday morning. So my poor dad had to take care of Sleepy, walking him, trying to make him drink, waiting for the vet to arrive. He took good care of him. When he got to the hospital it was clear that Sleepy was in a lot of pain, even though he'd been given painkillers. His heart rate was more than twice normal. I spoke to the vet over the phone, and he was fairly optimistic that he could fix Sleepy-- if the damage wasn't too extensive. And there was no way to know just how much damage there was without cutting him open and seeing just how much of his intestines had died. He gave him an 80% chance of survival with a full recovery, so I needed to see if he could be saved. We had him anesthetized and the vet went in to take a look.
Less than 20 minutes later the vet called back, and said that we were dealing with fifteen feet of dead intestines. He told me that statistically he might make it, but in his experience Sleepy probably wouldn't survive full surgery. I asked him to be put down, 6,000 miles away, over the phone. I hate that I wasn't there.
I'm devastated at losing him, but I'm so glad that he didn't have the chance to suffer for very long. He didn't suffer a long illness, or a traumatic accident. We had seventeen happy years together, and I will always remember him as a strong, healthy, loving horse. He was so special to me.
Rest in peace, Sleepy. I love you.
He was five years old when we bought him, and he'd been working an industrial cattle ranch, but he was so, so gentle. We all joked that putting him in an english saddle and teaching him to jump was like taking a hick to the big city, but he was such a natural. He was so patient with my fears, and I tried to be patient with his, but often in those early years we ended up scaring each other. Eventually we learned to trust each other.
We went to horse shows and spent a lot of time at the trainer's place. We went out on the trail, rode through the old orange groves and galloped up hills so we could see the view. When I went to college, he came with me, and I stopped caring about jumping higher and having the perfect form, and we would just go for rides. I think he liked that best. I certainly did. I've never known anyone but animals to be completely themselves, and it's rare for them to show you their selves so openly, but Sleepy did. He had such a big heart, and he loved people. He loved to have his cheeks petted, and his chin and his ears scratched. He loved it when I would scratch his neck in the right place, he'd lean so much he'd almost fall over. He had a bright white blaze on his face, and when you brushed his face he would sneeze about fifteen times and wipe his nose on your shirt. He loved being fed treats, and would always be so careful not to bite your hand when you were feeding them to him. He had such soft lips, and would give me little kiss-nibbles whenever I scratched his chin.
He stayed at my parents' house when I moved to London. He and Monkey Business, the pony, would run around the arena in the front yard and cause all kinds of trouble-- I think Sleepy was the only horse who would have put up with Monkey's constant biting and badgering. They would eat oranges off the nearby trees and sapotes when they fell to the ground, and they'd roll in the dirt and buck and play and Sleepy would taunt Monkey because he could reach the grass and Monkey couldn't. Whenever I came home he'd be the first one to come to the fence to say hello, and he'd rub his dirty face on my shoulder. I wish I had been home more often. I thought we'd have more time together. I'm moving back in September, and I was so looking forward to being around him again. He was such a sweet boy, he never held it against me that I'd been away.
Early on Monday morning he was probably having a really nice roll in the dirt, when he twisted his intestines up in a big knot. This is one of nature's greatest evolutionary flaws, the fact that horses' guts are so flexible. My dad noticed he wasn't eating breakfast so he called the vet. The damage was already done, but we didn't know it yet, but when the vet got there he suspected that it wasn't ordinary colic and recommended we send him to the veterinary hospital in Chino.
My mom was here visiting me, she was about to leave on tuesday morning. So my poor dad had to take care of Sleepy, walking him, trying to make him drink, waiting for the vet to arrive. He took good care of him. When he got to the hospital it was clear that Sleepy was in a lot of pain, even though he'd been given painkillers. His heart rate was more than twice normal. I spoke to the vet over the phone, and he was fairly optimistic that he could fix Sleepy-- if the damage wasn't too extensive. And there was no way to know just how much damage there was without cutting him open and seeing just how much of his intestines had died. He gave him an 80% chance of survival with a full recovery, so I needed to see if he could be saved. We had him anesthetized and the vet went in to take a look.
Less than 20 minutes later the vet called back, and said that we were dealing with fifteen feet of dead intestines. He told me that statistically he might make it, but in his experience Sleepy probably wouldn't survive full surgery. I asked him to be put down, 6,000 miles away, over the phone. I hate that I wasn't there.
I'm devastated at losing him, but I'm so glad that he didn't have the chance to suffer for very long. He didn't suffer a long illness, or a traumatic accident. We had seventeen happy years together, and I will always remember him as a strong, healthy, loving horse. He was so special to me.
Rest in peace, Sleepy. I love you.