One aspect I love about my job is the element of surprise. Most days have a common flow. Despite any attempt to plan, some days unfold in a completely different way than I expect. Summer holidays are a great break. I settle into a much more relaxed mode. I don’t plan out every day, but there is a routine. After twelve years of teaching, it has become a “cycle of life” in our family.

One Saturday morning this summer did not turn out as anyone expected. My father-in-law noticed his nephew’s horse did not come in with the others. June Skipper is 27 years old and walks with arthritic pain. He knew that John would be concerned. I was interested, as was my wife. We left the house, met John by the gate and headed out.

There is a small creek that cuts across the pasture. In mid-summer it exists as a deep strip of mud. My wife and I hesitated, wondering how to cross. John took off. He called out suddenly and we all ran to see John step into mud up to his waist. Every step he took make a large sucking sound. He lifted June’s large head out of the mud. I saw she was still breathing. It appeared that she had laid down and rolled to get rid of flies but the mud sucked her in. She had probably fought for most of the morning and she had little strength left.

We all went into a bit of hyper-mode. I ran around to find a rope and get the tractor. John struggled to keep June’s head up so that she could breath. Dragging her out by her hind feet was not the best plan but had little choice or time. We got her onto dryer land. We settled into a long day in the bright sun watching and waiting.

There were several moments we though June was taking her last breath. One of her eyes rolled widly – a sign that her mind was going. The other eye had swollen lids, the bottom one turned inside out. It was discolored. Was it damaged by sitting in the mud all morning? Did we wreck it when we dragged her? Slowly she would settle down to laboured breathing. She attempted to stand but it seemed like she couldn’t control the right side of her body.

We were all there for about four hours thinking of ways to help that horse. In one quiet moment I recalled what my wife had wanted to do that Saturday. There was a new filly at the next farm and she was only a week old. It was born from a horse my wife owned a part of. She was a beautiful little horse, black with white spots on her rump – a signature of her Apoloosa father. Her face was small and slightly dished – inherited from her Arabian mother.
I realized as I stood there watching June struggle with each breath that I had never seen an animal die. My kids walked out to the pasture at one point. They were scared to approach June. For me, life and death was seeing a crop seeded and harvested. My kids were even further removed.

John continued to work for his horse. We found she wated to eat if we put grass by her mouth. Everytime she tried to sit up, John piled dirt under her to prop her up. My wife wondered whether he was helping her or digging her grave (or both). Everntually, before supper, she stood up. John led her to a small pen. He dressed her eye. The next day he washed the mud off her body. She still shows sings of dehydration. It appears that she is blind in the right eye. Her walk is still stiff. But she survives. The young filly is unnamed nor any anyone quite commited to her ownership. That is something that will have to be decided soon.

Being a horse owner (largely a silent partner with my wife) I appreciated the experience those two animals gave me at either end of life. I’m not sure if I learned a lesson yet. But, it was an interesting day.