BEHS 010 – Crimson

I don't like Thoroughbreds, I told myself last year as I prepared for the arrival of my newest foster horse, Crimson. But I needed a gentle pasture mate and friend for Casey, the 36 year old Morab I had taken in from a woman in Houston. When Crimson stepped off the trailer, he paused, taking stock of his surroundings. He was elegant, despite the drooping pasterns which marked the presence of DSLD, the insidious disease which had made him unsuitable for riding. He looked down his nose at me and snorted, as if to say "Show me where I am going to live, and I'll see if I like it." We opened the gate to the barnyard, where Casey was pacing the fence line, as he had for the past three weeks, looking more gaunt every day, as he tried to adjust to his new home. Casey's ears pricked up, and he trotted over to greet the newcomer. Their muzzles touched, and as I removed Crimson's halter, they turned and walked away together, side by side. They spent the next year that same way, never more than a few feet from each other. Crimson was the gentle boss and Casey his adoring companion. Casey never again paced in worry. But the DSLD continued to progress, and Crimson moved slower and slower the past few months. He no longer trotted. He no longer was able to enjoy rolling when he was turned out every morning, and his pasterns were so low they would sometimes touch the ground. I knew it would soon be time. Casey had never fully bounced back from a bad colic this past winter, and his appetite grew less every day. I knew that his time was also approaching, and grieved for what I knew I had to do. Last evening they both were bathed, and brushed until their coats gleamed. Manes and tails were lovingly combed out, feet cleaned and hooves polished. They sensed my emotions, and both were unusually good, with none of the jealous squabbling over whose turn it was to be brushed or petted. This morning as they loaded into the trailer, the horses remaining behind gathered by the fences to watch. Each called as if to say goodbye to these two gentle souls, and my tears started again. Crimson and Casey showed no surprise when a bucket of alfalfa hay and handfuls of carrots appeared as we waited together for Dr. Goodman. We stood on a rolling hill, in field sprinkled with wildflowers. The vet tech placed a note with Crimson, asking him to watch over his young calf with a broken leg, which had crossed the Rainbow Bridge just yesterday. I whispered to both of them to look for Sharon's Sky and Lexie, Goldie, Petey, Oreo, Junkyard Bob and Spirit, and to make sure the little donkey Junior was not getting into mischief, as donkeys are apt to do. I said my goodbyes and wondered why each time, it hurts so bad, instead of getting easier. Goodbye, Crimson and goodbye, Casey. You were loved.