Her Horse is Dying. When Are We Blind To a Beloved Pet’s Pain? Or, What We Owe Our Companions
He stands in his corral with one back leg lifted. He can’t stand without pain. Both of his rear hocks are swollen.
The big paint-easily 17 hands- is as sweet as they come. Mild and affectionate, he was his owner’s since he was weaned. Now in his mid-twenties, he spends a lot of time standing.
In pain.
I don’t know his name. I have seen him every time I ride with my trainer on Sundays. His broad chest, his bright brown and white coloring. His friendly face. His huge strong body.
The other day I went into his corral to see about him. At the time I wasn’t aware either of his age or his infirmity. I’ve never seen him ridden. Never seen anyone in his corral except to muck out the horse apples.
He approached me curiously. I stood, and we exchanged breath.
I had a small apple biscuit. Good way to make an instant friend.
Satisfied he wouldn’t be asked to work, he relaxed. I went to work.