My Incredible Journey - Part 5

This is a sad post, there's no hiding it. However, in taking you on this journey, it wouldn't make sense to leave this part out. This is the slightly shortened version. After this post, I will have one final post in this series - a more uplifting, inspirational, and nostalgic post - reflecting on all that I have written here.

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Me and Taco, March 2007 - just three weeks before.

"Exhausted" is how I described myself as feeling. Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. A feeling of total depletion, unlike any I had felt before. Couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't go to school. The preceding weekend had taken a massive toll on me.

Sunday had typically been the weekend day that I chose to go to the barn. But, rain was in the forecast for April 15, 2007. So, we made a call to the barn owner to ask if we could come a day early, on Saturday. She said yes, that it would be fine. But, they were having the vet come out because Taco seemed to be colicky. (This is an intestinal/stomach ailment, for those that don't know.) She didn't think it was serious, but wanted to play it safe.

I remember feeling angry about him being sick. Why did this have to happen again? I hated worrying about him, but, naturally - involuntarily - I did it all the time.

The barn owner called my mom's cell phone a while later, when the vet had arrived and examined Taco. As it turned out, this episode of colic was much more serious than originally thought.

The world began to spin around me. My mom handed me the phone, and the vet started talking to me. "It would be best to put him to sleep." "He's lived a long life." The things he was saying could barely even be processed in my mind. I get chills just thinking about it. I had not expected this at all.

We rushed to the barn, tears pouring down my face like a waterfall. The vet didn't know exactly what was wrong, but had three ideas, each bleaker than the next. The vet explained that if Taco were even 10 years younger or so, he'd consider operating on him. But, the reality was that at forty years of age, surgery was not an option.

As is a recurring theme in my friendship with Taco, I couldn't just give up like that. He was up on his legs, walking around, picking at grass. Uncomfortable, yes, but in distress, no. How could we euthanize him without giving it a second thought?

All involved parties agreed. Barn owners, Taco's owner, and I all contested that we should at least try something. Maybe, just maybe, this would pass.

They gave him an injection and decided to "oil" him (pump mineral oil into his system), in hopes that it would get his insides moving, so to speak. I didn't watch the procedure. I went inside with another horse, who despite his stoic personality, offered me a ton of comfort.

Then, we played the waiting game. Nothing changed through that day or that night.

Fast forward to Sunday, April 15. It was raining buckets. I still remember that haunting rain all too vividly. The back of the barn was completely flooded. Taco's field was a muddy mess, but keeping him outside (with shelter, of course) rather than in his stall seemed like the best thing to do, in case he went down on his side during the night.

Back out to the barn I went. Taco looked pretty uncomfortable, slowly lifting up each of his hind legs from time to time. But, he was still standing. I wondered, if the vet's possible diagnoses were so poor, why hadn't he greatly worsened? I called my own (small animal) vet, I scoured the web for ideas, I posted on a horse forum and got all sorts of suggestions. Every one said that the vet should come back out to re-examine him and possibly give him more medication. There was a chance this colic wasn't as bad as originally feared. I tried so hard to convince every one to get that vet back out there. But, long story short, on that Sunday, he did not come. It was out of my control.

I held my composure until the latter half of my visit that day. The barn owner began talking to me about how she was going to clip off a piece of Taco's mane and tail to give to me, "just in case." At that point, it all felt real. This was really happening. There was a good chance that I was about to lose my horse.

We made the trek from the house back down to his field, the rain still banging against the metal barn roof. The barn owner went off to feed the other two horses, leaving me alone in Taco's small shed with him.

That was the last time I was alone with him, and somehow, I knew it. I couldn't do anything except stand there and cry. I hated seeing him the way he was, with his head in the corner, his eyes sad and low. The past six years raced inside my head. I didn't know what the future held. I didn't want to know, either. I just didn't want to leave him.

I went home from the barn that evening with the intent to return the following afternoon. Monday, April 16. That fateful day. Upon speaking with the barn owner that morning, she, too, finally thought it was a good idea to get the vet back out to re-evaluate Taco. He didn't seem to have improved or worsened, making it the third day of relative status quo. The vet was due back out later in the day.

It was not soon enough. Around 3 PM, my mother walked over to me, visibly upset, and handed me the phone. It was the barn owner.

Taco had suddenly worsened that afternoon. I'll spare you the details. The pain that he seemed to have kept at bay all weekend suddenly shot through his body. It, at that point, became apparent that he was in visible distress. He was put to sleep, with his owner there beside him.

I can't convey to you the sadness I felt. It was like being stabbed in the heart. My one and only Taco was with me no more, after a three-day struggle, and I had no idea how I would go on.

There is one more installment in this series. Please come back for Part 6.