The state of my horse ownership

Lately I have been distracted by showing at the Royal, Amanda showing at the Royal, a friend showing Diddy at the Royal, and planning my day around when I can make a trip to Tonganoxie to hang out at the barn. I have gone through periods where the horses weren't the first thing on my mind, but this isn't one of them. Unfortunate that this phase of the cycle should fall so near my final exams.

Diddy is banished to a pasture, where he and his buddy Sprite are enjoying free choice hay. Technically I am banished to my studies, which are pretty daunting, considering final exams are looming and I have yet to discover the secret code that decodes the tax code. (I'm aware that's an awful sentence. Mere reference to tax class muddles my brain.) Yet somehow I've still gone to the barn twice in the last week with plans to visit over the weekend.

It's hard to explain why I feel guilty about making time for something that makes me so happy. But I do feel guilty, the way I used to feel guilty about changing my undergraduate major to creative writing. Somewhere in elementary school I determined that fun things are not valuable things, and it's been a difficult notion to shake. According to this logic, tax dominates my life and is the fodder of constant waking nightmares; because it is miserably difficult, it must be of great value!

Today I drove through seamless rain to the barn, slogged through the mud to catch a very wet and very obese pinto mare named Sprite, and I was damp and shivering and smiling idiotically by the time we arrived back at the barn. Shame on you, Universe, for allowing me to enroll in Federal Income Taxation; but thank you, thank you, for horses.

Jessie

My little Westie died last week. One week ago tomorrow, my sister carried her into the veterinarian’s office, set her on the table, and held her head while she passed away very quietly a few seconds later.

I saw her over the weekend before, and spent Saturday night waking up every couple hours to make sure her saline drip was still administering a drop of fluid every four seconds and stroking her head. Pain or senility had eliminated her normal enthusiasm. When I came home over these several years since officially leaving the nest, she would greet me with a Westie grin, follow me everywhere, and whine quietly at the door when I left. Over the past few weeks, she was visibly declining. Her hearing disappeared entirely over the course of the last year, but until two weeks ago she was still eating with her usual vigor, demanding to be lifted onto the couch or chair to sit beside the family member of her choice, and greeting her best friend and contemporary Orange Cat when she was let outside.

I learned many things from a small white terrier. An early lesson was that a terrier will resist training that is inconsistent with her basic need to chase squirrels, follow scents, or nap on the sofa. Another was that charisma is far more important than coat color in being cast in such live theater productions as The Wizard of Oz. I learned that canine loyalty will lead your dog to continue sleeping outside your bedroom door for weeks after you leave for college, but that abandonment is not held against you in the least when you return to visit. I learned that a father can better combat loneliness when afforded a small white sidekick. And recently I learned that it is no tragedy at all to die at the end of a long, happy life with family members nearby.

I notice this week that other people I know have lost human friends and family members, which should probably make me feel ashamed of my own sadness. Instead I try to benefit from the reminder to appreciate everything and everyone I have the privilege of knowing and loving, and fondly recall a truly outstanding little dog named Jessie.