He was a 20-year-old Selle Francais, with impeccable ground manners, but true to his warm blood heritage, a plastic bag could make him jump 10 feet in the air. He was born in Lille, France (hence, his barn name – Lyly), while his official name was Halyze de L’Amaurial (roughly, the “warm desert wind”, although my French speaking friends tend to vary a bit on the translation).
He was stunning looking, indeed the best-looking guy of any barn, 16 hands high, broad chested, dark bay in color and with a tail and mane that made many refer to him as Fabio (the Argentine model with the gorgeous hair). He also would sometimes have little white spots (not gray, although his muzzle had started to gray), and then they would disappear magically and then some would pop up elsewhere. We, of course, had him checked to make sure there was no vitamin deficiency or anything causing these spots and the horse dermatologist (yes, they have those), said “he gets spots and then he loses them.” Well, that was that. He was relatively free of these interloping spots on the day that he died. He was powerful, an awesome mover (smooth rhythmic gate) and made everyone that rode him look like a better rider than they were. Seeing him gathered up properly in a canter (or better yet, sitting on him at the canter) was truly something to behold. In his younger days, he c/would do flying lead changes (and practically everything else you asked of him) like changing gears on a Porsche. He was not a lesson horse, nor a school master, nor anything other than a handsome, warm, respected and respectful, strong and independent athlete. He was also one of my best friends.
I got the call on late Saturday afternoon. Linda, who had been his faithful and honest and steady caretaker since we moved him to calmer pastures, was on the line and she said “there’s an emergency, I think Lyly broke his leg.” It’s about 45 minutes from here to there in a normal drive, and I think I made it in something more than 30 and something less than 40. Linda called in the middle of the trip and put me on the phone with Dr. XXX who said that he had suffered a bad break, above the hock (which is the rough equivalent of the femur on a human). If you are at all aware of horse anatomy, you’re thinking – how the fuck did he break his leg there? That’s what I was thinking any way. She didn’t have an X-Ray machine with her, but it was her judgment that it was a bad break and that her recommended course was to put him down, to relieve his misery. I told her that I was going 88 miles an hour and could he wait until I got there? She asked how far I was away, which made me know that it was very serious. She told me that she would give him something else, but to hurry. Those were truly some of the most agonizing moments of my life. I knew that each moment between me and him resulted in agonizing pain for him and increased the chance that the doctor would have already put him out of his misery.
I cried and wailed, while going some insane speed, and wailed some more and asked that he be kept alive long enough for me to see him. It was perhaps, and I’ll never forgive myself for this, the most selfish act I have ever undertaken. On the other hand, and I guess I know that this was more for me than him, I wanted him to know that I was there with him and for him and that I would make it better, as I always had, anytime he’d had anything go wrong. So, I pressed the gas peddle, put on the emergency blinkers and sped onward. She introduced herself as Dr. XXX – I saw her and she was young, very young, and then I saw him and I understood why she had mentioned the XRay machine. His leg was practically detached and the bone had broken the skin on the inside of his leg (equivalent of the inside of a human thigh). An older vet would not have said a word about an XRay machine – there was no weight bearing on that leg; it was completely and irretrievably separated into two separate halves. That leg could not have held up a glass of water, much less my dearest 1200 pound friend.
There was no mark on the outside of the leg (as if he had been kicked by another horse) and there was only blood on the ground right around him. This violence had stopped him in his tracks. I don’t know how he couldn’t have fallen when this happened, but I also don’t know how he could have gotten up afterwards, as this leg would provide no support, not for a glass of water and not for him, whatsoever. He was sullen, but clearly recognized me with a quiet rumble as I reached him. He put his head on my shoulder, as so many times before, but it was heavier now. I tried to contain my emotions, but I was also unsuccessful at that. Yes, he let me know that he knew I was there, but otherwise did not move, a single inch. He couldn’t – he had only three legs. The fourth was a dangling appendage, a grotesque facsimile of something that used to be a leg.
I asked to do it right then, but she said that I could say my goodbyes, although what does one say. I smelled him one last time, breathing him in a way that I’ll never forget. But, he did not move – he did not move whatsoever. The sign of a horse in shock (or any warm-blooded animal) is that the blood drains from their gums (and goes to their core), so that the gums turn light red or pink. His gums were as white as his teeth. I touched his muzzle one last time – that soft whiskery muzzle that I had soothed so many times when he was tense, or was it when I was tense? Either way, it was still soft and warm and I want to think it made him feel better yet again – it made me feel better. Then, I gathered myself and asked her to let him go. She explained the logistical details and I held the lead and his head and kissed him one more time and then he was gone. 1200 pounds of power, and warmth, and beauty, falling like a sack of flour tossed from a truck. He was still beautiful for the first few moments after he was gone. Then, the warm muzzle was cold and the reality of a dead horse in a pasture on a summer afternoon in Georgia began to set in. I gave her my card and told her where to send the bill.
She drove a diesel truck.