I brought Diane’s horse with me to Missouri. Apollo was a big, black Morgan that Diane had owned for over 20 years. In 2012 I agreed to keep him with my horses because she was going through some personal difficulties. Two years later, when she could no longer afford his upkeep, I offered to permanently take care of him. By that time, he was elderly, but she or I could still ride him for short distances. He was a gentleman giant, very well trained and so responsive to humans. When I decided to move from Indiana to Missouri, he of course, came along with the rest of the herd.
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Apollo died. In fact, the vet came to euthanize him because he had a twisted colon. Torsion is what it is called, and it is very painful. The kindest and most merciful thing to do was to end his suffering. It was agonizing, wanting to relieve his pain but knowing this meant the end of his life. I put off calling Diane for more than 24 hours because I wanted to be able to carry on a decent conversation without sobbing so hard I couldn’t talk. But cry we did, together on the phone. We laughed and cried, remembering some of Apollo’s quirkier personality traits plus agreeing that when on a ride with him, you always knew he would keep you safe.
One of the difficult things about euthanizing a 1000 pound animal is what to do with the body. The only thing that seemed appropriate was to bury him in the pasture where he spent most of his time. The problem was that it had rained all day and it was too muddy to bring in a backhoe the day he died. It was almost three days before the ground was dry enough to bring in heavy equipment. In the meantime, Apollo’s body lay in the middle of the barn. I, and the other four horses, simply walked around him during that time. I know I was grieving, and so were they in their own way.
There is nothing so final as viewing the body after death has occurred. It brought home the reality that Apollo was no longer with the rest of the herd. It helped me let go of Apollo and realize that there would now be a new reality in the herd. I had developed a routine around certain responsibilities for feeding time. This routine bookended every day, morning, and night. Now because of his absence, I would have to develop a new routine for feeding time and caring for the remaining horses. Having his body in the barn forced me to begin to adjust to the presence of his absence.
When I talked to Diane, I told her that I would cut off some of his long, black, beautiful tail and send it to her. This is a common thing many horse owners do when their time comes. (In fact, there is a poem “The Best Horses in Heaven, They Have No Tail” by Miska Paget, which is about this very practice.) I talked to Apollo as I cut the hair from his tail. I told him how much Diane and I had loved him and how much pleasure he gave us during his life. I also thanked God for sending such a beautiful, gentle animal into our lives to bless us. And all the while, it was so obvious that while his body was still present, he was absent. Such a powerful, holy moment, the presence of Apollo’s absence. I wanted to take off my shoes for sure I was on holy ground.
On Friday morning, the ground was finally dry enough for my neighbor to bring in his backhoe. It is no small task to dig a grave big enough for such a large animal. One must be sure it is deep enough and wide enough. When it was done, I texted Diane because she knew this was going to happen today. “He’s safe and warm in the ground now, near the trees where he loved to hang out.” She texted back “Ohhh. He is going back to the earth. Please tell him that I will always love him! …crying in the grocery store.”
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