The day was crisp, it was cool. You walk up to your front door, unlock it, and the family follows you in. You all eat dinner. It's two days before the vet is due to come euthanize your 33 year old horse. There is a slight darkness hanging around the household. This was the third year you've owned her. Prissy was her name, and it fit her well. She was stuck up. Dinner is done. You go to your room and turn on your game system and fire up a game to play before sleep takes over. While playing, you get this dreadful feeling. Something isn't right. You pause your game, stand up, and walk outside. Your newest horse, a gelding named Bob, is whinnying. You hear hard thumps. Something isn't going right in the corral. You run down and jump the six foot fence as if it wasn't there. You see Bob, he comes up to you to rub his head on your hand. Then you see a dark bulge, struggling on the ground.
You move towards it, already knowing it's your horse. As you approach, you see her kicking her legs. A heavy weight hits you hard. Your throat gets this lump, and you just know she fell. Being old and having arthritis that already bites at her joints, this fall could mean the end. You gently place your hand on her cheek. With heavy footfalls, yet amazing speed, you race back up to the house to alert your mother. She comes out. There is nothing you can do. You call the vet who says give it the night. If she isn't better the next day, he'll come out early. So you sleep, though not very well. The next day, you wake up, Bob is penned up away alone, so he does not hurt or disturb Prissy. You feed him, then walk over to the still struggling Prissy who has moved to a new location. The smaller corral is where she lies now. Her body is lathered in cold sweat. The vet is called out, and he arrives at 8 am. You stand there as he walks over and analyzes the situation, then sets up the fatal dose that will put her to rest.
A mockingbird sits on the corral's top post, watching silently. You kneel down, and you grab hold of your best friends head. You gently pet her, cooing to her how good she is. How much you love her. As the vet administers the fatal dose, you still hold her, you kiss her muzzle and her cheek. A tear falls, then another, until it seems as if you're going to cry a river. Her cheek becomes saturated from the tears that have escaped your eyes tight grasp. The vet stands up, and he places his hand on your shoulder and says "You did the right thing, she's no longer in pain." You know it was the right thing, but you still feel horrible. The mockingbird gives a lone cry, as if it is crying with you, and when you look at it, it chirps once more, then flies off. The vet leaves. You stay with your horses body.
You decide to remove the blanket you had covered her with before the people came who would haul her body away. It is illegal to bury your animals where you live, so you cannot, even though you want to. You close her eyes for her, those once full of life eyes that now held the sky's reflection in them, death... dull... never again will they tell you a story. You then sit with her. You still pet her warm body. The truck arrives, and Bob won't look towards Prissy's body or the truck, he has his rear end to the action. He too is hurt. They attach the chain to her hind legs and drag her to the truck. With a feeling of disgust, you turn away, you can't watch as they load her up. They thank you, offer their sincere apologies, and drive off. You stand there, staring at the ground, where her hoof prints from her kicking still lay. They were engraved there, at least until you wiped them away, but do you? No. You leave them. You walk off, and undo the make shift corral Bob was placed in. He walks to the spot where Prissy was and lies down, smelling the ground. You feel more tears stain your cheeks.
With a slight breeze, you smell Prissy. She has passed. You know she's in a better place now. She's not in pain. Her hoofprints are engraved in your heart.
With a soft smile, you look upwards and close your eyes, and you tell the sky, "Prissy, I shall listen for your hoofbeats in Heaven."
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Prissy was a 33 year old Quarab mare. Sorrel in colour. She was a rescue mare I had purchased at the auction for $180. She proved to be the best horse a girl could have. She was put down November 8, 2007 at 8:56 am. She will forever be in my heart.
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