October, my favorite month, is off to a rocky start.
Biskit suffered a bout of colic last week. The first vet visit came Tuesday night after finding the portly palomino lying at the far end of the dry lot, not his usual nap time. We tubed him with warm water and oil to help move things along his G-I tract, kept him in the barn, monitored his intake and output. He seemed to rally on Wednesday, but by Thursday he’d stopped eating and drinking, and after a few hours of treatment, when it was clear he had some sort of intestinal impediment and was still in pain despite the drugs onboard, I made the decision to let him go.
The Best choice is definitely not always the Easy choice.
Animals assimilate life and death differently than do their caretakers and they accept the inevitable with an admirable grace. Horses who colic often paw at the ground, bite at their sides, or roll violently on the ground, and I’d expect a dramatic display from my Pony of Very Little Patience, aptly nicknamed The Toddler by Dr Heather. But Biskit didn’t demonstrate any unruly behavior; he just stood quietly, occasionally raised a front hoof a couple inches off the ground and glanced back at his belly a handful of times.
He quietly endured the treatments, except for the beginning of the Tuesday night tubing procedure, to which he staged a mild protest, But Dr Steve is a pro, and Biskit was running out of fight, so the job was done in short order. He spent two nights in his stall without so much as one tap of his hoof on the door to object, but he also wouldn’t eat or drink, and the water Dr Steve tried to tube into him on Thursday afternoon stopped at the 2-gallon mark, an indication of obstruction.
I stroked his neck, rubbed his ears, looked into his eyes, told him I was sorry he was hurting so, and that I loved him so very much. And I called it.
Chicago, who stayed inside for 2 nights and a day without complaint, lost his herd, and he watched what he could see of the proceedings, calling occasionally, running sprints in the alley when we moved to the arena to put Biskit down. I walked him in after Dr Steve left, and he sniffed Biskit’s body, then grazed on the dregs of the late season grasses poking through the sand.
When returned to the barn and pasture, the Big Red Beast called a few times, but calmed down – no frenzied galloping, just periodic glances toward the arena, at the green tarped mound that was his companion, whinnying and waiting for a response he’ll never hear again.
We all made it through the night, woke to a cold, steady rain and as promised, the kind young man with the compassion to do this work, came early to pick up Biskit’s body. Chicago, who had been quietly eating his morning hay, walked to the side of the shelter with a clear view of the arena and called again, a final, sorrowful unanswerable call.
Beyond heartbreaking.
Biskit had been the favorite of many friends, family, and visitors, especially the non-horsey types, who I think were drawn to the pretty palomino with the friendly “How ya doin?” expression and small stature with the big belly – the equine version of a Dad Bod.
He was a plucky little pony, a loyal friend who exercised himself by doing laps in the alley when I rode Chicago around our little wooded trails. He walked nicely next to me or anyone else on the other end of the lead rope. Even without the rope. He knew his place in the hierarchy and was clever enough to convince Chicago to take the top spot after we lost Rusty, leaving the other two to battle it out for which had to be the leader.
By Saturday I knew Chicago isn’t cut out to be an only child and I found a companion through the Minnesota Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation, the group that brought me Biskit.
Their introduction was perfectly uneventful and with the first slightly flattened ear from Moe, Chicago passed on the baton of Head of the Herd, relieved, I’m sure, to be removed from a position of responsibility.
So, life moves on. Caring for animals keeps us grounded, and living with 2 horses, 2 dogs and 2 cats cements my feet in the deep shit. Though losing Biskit made me want to sink to the shavings in his stall and sob til my tear ducts were tapped out, the others are still here, still needing love and feeding and exercise and cleaning up, no matter the other trials of the day.
The transition of the new guy, the daily routines of the regulars, and a series of other unfortunate life events left little time for rumination, and I find myself vacillating between stoic stone wall and meltdown dish rag, a sea of salty water pooled behind my eyeballs, constantly threatening to breech the levee, successful in the mission at odd and inconvenient times.
Moe moved into the stall in the barn, and I’m delighted to have him join the herd, but Biskit has a permanent place in my heart. I will remember him every time I look at the scuff marks and manure stains he left in the barn aisle, the dings he pounded in the stall door, and the slow-feed hay net he discreetly untied to convert it to the medium-feed speed he preferred; I’ll remember him when I wear the bracelet of leather braided with part of his pony tail, which still smells like him.
In these past few weeks of shortened sunlight, when I’d go down to bring the horses off the pasture for the night, Chicago was already at the barn, or near the gate, ready to collect his treat and walk up to call dibs on the best night hay. But Biskit would stand at the faraway end, waiting for me to walk the length of the dark field, only the moonlight to help me miss the mounds of manure between us. I’d get a couple steps from him, and in response to my “Hey Pony”, he’d lift his head, amble over, collect his cookie and we’d head to the barn, the two of us shuffling side by side in the silent stillness of a Minnesota night. I will miss that.
Rest in peace Biskit.
From Four Sticks Farm 