"The rule of the writer is not to say what we can say but what we are unable to say." --Anais Nin

I have tried for over five months to write about Bear. The truth is, I really don’t want to; I have simply been unable to. I don’t want to touch it, it's so much easier to go to bed night after night and forget that it’s true.  It seems, at times, a grief so overwhelming that every time I try to make the pain take shape, to help make some sense of it, I simply walk away from the computer before I even begin. It was not until I read the above quote that I was able to write a single word. For me, writing has always been about saying in written words what I cannot actually speak a word about, in any meaningful way. What is the point, indeed, otherwise?

It’s the New Year and for some reason, this spurs me on to continue to try. Maybe it’s because there is some distance between the day he left and the hopeful, new beginning that is January. Maybe it’s just the part of me that looks back, fingertips reaching, trying to touch him again, to not let the memories fade with time, to do my best to hold onto him.  It’s hard for some to understand the depth of grief that comes with losing a horse, a cherished companion, a trusted friend. In the grand scheme of things, most would likely not find it terribly relevant, the loss of a big, red horse with the satiny, shiny coat. They would likely struggle to understand the depths of my pain and the hole in my heart, in my paddock, in my life. Grief is, as I have said before, a very lonely thing, we feel so terribly alone.  Those who knew him also know he was a big horse with an even bigger heart, a heart of solid gold. I love all my horses but Bear I loved most of all. For a horse girl like me, who has always sought solace, freedom and happiness in horses, it’s a grief that can be very hard to adequately explain and even harder to endure. Those of us who love horses know the satisfaction of brushing a coat until it gleams, scrubbing a water bucket and filling it with fresh, clean water, the familiar sore ache of our legs after a good ride. The peacefulness that comes after spending a day at the barn, coming home tired, dirty and feeling like you've had a vacation. Horses have always had the ability to help drown out the countless voices in my head, the voices of others all around me... and fill it only with those things which are important. Riding is like an instant vacation, everything else fades away. I breathe. I smile. I relax.

My husband loved him too, but not in the same way I did. He is probably the closest person on the planet to actually understand how hard I grieve for him. He cried with me the day we let him go. He refused to cover his head with the blanket I handed him once he was gone, saying, tearfully, No, No, he’s sleeping, just sleeping. We both sat on the ground next to him, sobbing, laying a blanket over his back, hugging him, and telling him how much we loved him. How we always would. I will never forget that hour of my life. One minute he is there, living, breathing, following me, calling out to me in his agony, wanting me to help him. And oh, how I wish there was something I could have done to do just that, to change the final outcome. The next minute, he is gone, shockingly so, and I know, after this day, I will never see him again. At least, not waiting in my paddock, not during the morning chores, not on a sunny, warm day when I could bathe and ride him in the sun. It seems a truth too hard to believe. It is very hard to re-visit and so, I tell myself, just don’t think about it, you’ve got plenty to do today, just keep moving… But in the end, it doesn’t express my love for him either. It doesn’t tell his story or help me to sort through the painful memories or gently push me to let him go. And so…I will write. And of course, it Is painful. Every word, every memory. I don’t write a sentence without tears. But I want to tell his story. I still can’t speak about it easily, I don’t get very far, but I can write, as always, it is easier for me to express my pain in words.

 No matter how chaotic my day, or who said an unkind thing or how many times I got cut off on the freeway coming home, when I go out each night to let the horses out of their stalls it all fades away. Bear would always call out to me. Each and every time he saw me, dinner time or not. I think it is his voice I miss the most. When we first moved to our new place, I would go out to see the horses many times a night, just because I could. It felt so luxurious, so special, to be able to do that. It has been a dream come true to be able to drink my morning coffee and watch my horses out my window. I would stand there, alone in the dark with my hands warming under his mane and watch the stars. I would listen to the coyotes yip, hear the wind rustle the unfamiliar trees; breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of horse, my very favorite thing in the world since my earliest of childhood memories.  It was the same about a week before I lost him but I stayed out with him an extra-long time that night. Just him and me. I talked to him and told him what a good boy he was, how much I loved him and I knew, somehow, that things were about to change. He let me hold his head and stood motionless while I pet him and kissed him on the cheek. I thought about how it would feel to not have his presence in the paddock, how  different it would be. I wished then that I had spent more time caring for him, braiding his tail, teaching him tricks, going for walks in the park across the street. I wished for more time. I felt sad for being so busy all the time, for being so stressed, for forgetting in the frenzy that is life, that my horses were my sanity, my one place in the universe where I always felt  happy. There was stillness that night, an absolute quiet, a all-encompassing darkness. A million stars above. I felt heavy with grief, even then, I stood hugging him in the night and I stayed that way for quite a while, while he waited, patient as always and allowed me to do it. He hadn't been feeling well for quite awhile and although we were treating him as directed by our vet, I felt as if we were saying our goodbyes that night, acknowledging the inevitable. Somehow, I just knew.

My other two horses are silent, they are not talkers, like Bear.  For a day or two though, after he is gone, Arion calls for him, randomly, throughout the day.  Azula is silent but lifts her head at every car that comes up the road. They both stand in the corners of the paddock and look out as far as they can, ears forward, watching and waiting. I know they are wondering when he will return. They look in all directions, they call out again. After a few days, they seem to give up. It tears me up to see them look for him and even more when they eventually give up. I miss his voice, I desperately miss him.  I have to go down to the paddock each morning to feed and care for the other two horses and for a month I cried each time I did it. I had to steel myself, prepare and stop to take a deep breath before I walked out the door, knowing his empty stall would, once again,  be waiting. I placed flowers full of color in his feeder. I wouldn't let the horses go into his stall, I kept it closed off, empty, it was Bears stall only, no one else's, I didn't want anyone in there. I sat down in the sand first thing in the morning as the sun came up and cried. I didn't know what else to do. Somehow, it made me feel better to just sit where he lived. Sit and feel whatever part of him was still there. I cried a thousand tears that first month, sitting on the ground. I said prayers for peace and relief from loss; eyes closed, I soaked up the sun and thought about all of our great memories over the years, all of our great rides, his lameness successes and failures. I felt empty and hollowed. I put one foot in front of the other and tried to forget…

Bear was a gentle giant. He was a three quarters Quarter horse and one quarter Belgian draft. He came from a horse dealer; he was a gift to me from my husband when we first met  (a man who buys a horse lover a horse is a keeper). He had scars on his front fetlocks, I have no idea how they got there. Maybe he was roped and tripped in a charro rodeo, maybe he got caught in a fence, how they got there, we never knew, but they were deep, however he received them. It is likely one of the reasons he was never fully sound. He was a very lucky boy not to end up in the nightmarish slaughter pipeline. A lame, large horse is always at risk that way. Bear was the horse I got when I was about to give up horses all together. After my serious, drunk-driving car crash, I struggled with fear, I would freeze while riding, would have to sometimes get off and walk on the trail when I got too nervous, things I never worried about before. My friend had a horse, an older show horse named Country, who I rode for many years after the crash and who helped me get through much of the beginning stages of re-learning to ride. But when Country had to retire,  I contemplated giving up the horses; I felt I had lost my nerve. My body was too worried about getting hurt again and would not relax. Riding had always been my biggest pleasure, my most treasured activity, my obsession, I was devastated to even be considering it but I was so frustrated with myself. I just did not have the same confidence, I was changed. Bear was the first horse I felt absolutely safe on, always, no matter where we were. He kept me riding. Without him, it’s likely I never would have gotten on another horse for the rest of my life. When I rode him, I felt like the little girl who believed in the magic of riding, who knew horses cured all, who believed in all the good things of the world and none of the bad. He made me remember. We needed each other and somehow, the powers that be made it happen. I loved him and, as crazy as it might sound, he loved me. A friend once said to my husband, I've never seen a horse love someone like he does your wife. It startled me a bit, I asked her why she thought that, skeptical.  She said; he looks for you, waits for you, watches for you all day long, calls to you every time you come down the driveway, he does absolutely everything you ask him to do, even when he doesn't understand it. We had a deep and lasting bond, unusually so, special even in light of all the other great animals I have been privileged to know.

For a few years, I rode him on the trails at Hansen Dam, where I lived at the time.  We had great rides those Saturdays, so many wonderful trail rides through the streams and hills. Riding with my friend Linda, who has since moved away to Colorado. So many changes since then. On one memorable stormy day, I decided to walk him around the Equestrian Center. It had been raining heavily so the trails were muddy, too muddy to ride, I wanted him to stretch his legs. We walked along, enjoying the beautiful, cool day. As we went down one small hill, I realized the trail had washed away, leaving a single track pathway in it's place. Before I realized it, Bear started trotting ahead of me, I ended up running behind him since there was no room beside him for anyone on the trail. The weather was rainy, windy, even lightning was flashing across  the sky. I tried to keep up, but it was impossible, he pulled away from me and got loose. He began to trot faster and then canter down the wash. I ran after him, calling his name, he kept going for a little bit, then I yelled "Bear, you Stop this minute! Whoa!" Silly, I know, but I'll be damned if he didn't slow down, finally walk, then stopped. He turned back as if to say; Hurry Up!  and he stood and waited for me to catch up. My friend walking her own horse with us was incredulous; "He stopped?!?" Yes, he did, I walked up to him, picked up his lead rope and walked on. Such a good boy, most horses would have taken off running and bucking all the way home.

Over the years, he would sporadically become slightly lame, and then be fine. He was only four or five years old, so the vets who examined him never suspected anything serious or permanent. He was finally diagnosed with ringbone, a type of arthritis at around seven. Hence beginning ten years of treatments, potential cures, special shoeing, supplements, shock-wave treatments, chiropractors, specialty vets, pastures, disastrous, painful "barefoot" trims  and injections. Some of which helped for a little while. None which cured him or stopped the ringbone from progressing.

One of my attempts to help his ringbone came in the form of pulling his shoes and putting him out to pasture. My friend Eric trailered him up to Ojai. It was a beautiful place, 2,000 acres of rolling hills, green grass, running creeks. I felt like it was paradise for him. The only problem was, because he would be far out in the hills, the horses were only brought in once a month, so boarders could only visit the first Saturday of every month. I am amazed I ever agreed to that, but again, because I thought it was best for Bear, so I did it for him. When I left him in the paddock with the others and we started to drive away, he began to follow us along the fence. I would not have believed it if I had not been there. It was straight out of a Hallmark film, where those sappy scenes that never happen in real life are conjured up. As we picked up speed while driving away, he began to trot and then run to keep up, running along the fence line. He called out to me, keeping up with the truck as we drove away. I was incredulous and in tears. I felt terrible. It’s as if he knew it would not be a good place. He did not want me to leave him there. 

 

For a few months though, he loved it there. He thrived and did so well with his lameness. One day, during our monthly visits, while he was brought into the orchard, I slipped a halter on him and climbed up on him bareback. He hadn't been ridden in over a year and riding was strictly forbidden per my boarding contract. Especially in the presence of the other horses but no one was around and it was so tempting. He was perfect, as always, we walked and trotted around the orchard in and out between the other horses in the herd. It is one of my favorite memories. He befriended the most feeble of horses, protecting them from others so that they could eat. He learned to guard his water bucket and salt block. He grew shiny and healthy. But it was the year of El Nino and when Winter came,  many nights I lay awake knowing he didn't have shelter in the pouring rains out in the hills. He developed rain rot. He grew thinner. Each time I went I had to bring him supplemental hay. I wasn't sure what was going on as I couldn't get anyone to return my phone calls. I was told the ranch management had changed hands. Turns out they only had the horses on about 5 acres, instead of the 2,000 as promised, which they shared with cattle and they were not supplementing their hay. The last month I left him there he did the same thing as when I first left him, he ran after my car, he called out, his face was worried and tense. I made a frantic phone call to Eric to pick him up as soon as possible and move him, once again. The ASPCA removed the other horses. I felt I had failed him again.

He was moved so many times, he was actually the reason we bought our horse property, I did not want to move him ever again. I wanted him to come home. I wanted to make sure he had enough food, enough water, enough shelter. Through the years he had often not gotten enough of those things where he was boarded. One person told me he could only get two flakes of hay a day with the board I paid, even though he was 16.2 and a draft-cross. I paid for supplemental hay, but all the other horses ate it too.  In another barn, he slept on the hard ground, developing hock sores, because it was so windy it would blow away all of his shavings.  At another particular place, he was in pasture with five or so other horses. They picked on him mercilessly, and he had bites and scars all over his back. It was unusual as Bear was generally the horse "in charge". He almost ran me over once, in his attempt to desperately get away from them, knocking me down in the process. I went to the owner, horrified and she told me, Well, that’s just what horses do. He grew thin once again and was stressed. He followed me when I walked back up the hill to my car, anxious. I once again, made a frantic phone call (poor Eric) and had him moved. This time I brought Azula, my Camarillo White horse, with him. He had lost so many friends along the way, countless friends at different stables; he was moved and moved and moved. I promised him I would never take Azula away from him; she would always be his friend. And she was, til the day he died, they were inseparable.

About a year before he passed away, Bear was chosen for a photo shoot for Ralph Lauren. He worked through my friend Sarah’s company, Animal Saavy. They had requested a horse that the models could hold, walk, sit on. Bear was perfect for that, I knew he would be great. Then they called and requested another horse, a darker one. We decided to bring Arion, my Friesian-cross with us to Santa Inez for the shoot. All day before the horses were bathed, groomed and brushed until they shone. Up before the sun we trailered for hours towards Santa Barbara. Both horses rode beautifully and we arrived on time, driving over a rickety old bridge towards the ranch in the green hills. We waited for most of the day, allowing the horses to eat, walking them around a bit to acclimate them, ate lunch. Finally they were ready for them. We drove to a location on top of a hill, it was windy, cool. I remember thinking to myself, Oh this is gonna be fun, as the props blew around, I hope they behave. They weren't movie horses, after all, just my kids. I hadn't a worry about Bear, but Arion is young and hot-headed at times. They took a few pictures with Bear and the model under the tree, holding his leather halter. Bear was so quiet, despite the flags and flapping set dressing and new location. He pawed a bit when he had to stay still too long though, which made them  nervous for the model in the end. They took a lot of pictures of Arion and ultimately, ended up shooting a lot more pictures of him. The ad turned out beautifully and I was so proud of both of my boys. I never did see the pictures of Bear, since they were not chosen. I wonder if they are still out there somewhere. Arion got full page ads in People and fitness magazines.  That day will always live in my memories as one of the most satisfying days we all spent together. 

The morning we lost him started off as any other. I went out to feed just as the sun was coming up. As I got a few feet down the driveway, I realized Bear was standing in the middle of the paddock and not moving. His coat also seemed strangely different,  it seemed very dark from a distance.  Something didn't look right although it was still just barely breaking dawn. I struggled to try to see, I knew he was in trouble, I started running, I yelled his name. He called out to me. When I got to him, I realized he was covered in sweat from head to toe and that's why his coat looked so dark. His eyes were completely sunken in. He swayed as he was standing, he refused to move. I immediately turned and ran back into the house to call the vet, who, Thank God, lives only a few minutes away. As we were waiting for her, I ran back outside. Bear was standing in the same place as I left him. I put a halter on him, encouraged him to move forward, trying to get him out of the paddock away from the other horses in anticipation of the vet visit. Despite his pain, he walked forward as I asked him to, always a good boy, always trying his best to do what I asked of him. Tom came out while I was trying to get him to walk. I burst into tears the minute I saw him. He said, He’s going to be okay sweetie, I said, No, I don’t think so. Not this time. No.

He walked a few feet and I was able to get him out the stall door. He was shivering and wet so we covered him in a blanket. We waited. He moaned and tried to walk in circles. I kept talking to him, telling him he was going to be alright. It seemed like hours, but it was only about ten minutes. When the vet arrived, she got out of the truck and just stood there, she did not move closer.  She took one look at him and said; He needs to get to the hospital, we can’t help him here. I immediately said I would call my neighbor; see if she could transport him in her trailer. She said; Wait, wait, let me listen to his heart first, check his vitals. His gums were white, then blue. She listened to his heart, listened again and looked up and said; I'm sorry, he’s not going to make it to the hospital. It’s likely that he’s ruptured his intestine, if he hasn't, he’s about to. He’s not going to make it. He’s in a lot of pain. I stood motionless, unable to speak. I could hear only my own breathing, feel my heart pounding. Finally I said, NO. Please, is there anything we can do, we'll do it, anything. I don't care what it is, anything. She shook her head. No. She said she was so sorry. I knew it anyway, I knew it the minute I saw him. I hung my head and began, once again,  to cry. It all seemed so surreal. The day had come, I knew it was coming. It could not be happening. The morning was blooming all around us, the birds began to sing. I could not breathe. And my Bear was about to leave us forever.

.

Tom came over and began to cry as well. The sound of my husband crying is a sound I will never forget. We hugged each other and tried to stay strong. She readied the syringe, she waited while we said goodbye. I hugged him one last time,  struggling to hold it together. I kissed his face. Told him again how much we loved him. Dropped tears on his coat. I walked away as she gave the injection, I looked away when he fell, unwilling to have that be my last image of him but I heard him go down and then, immediately went to him. I sat down on the ground, wrapped my arms around his body and then sat with him for the next hour, sobbing inconsolably.  I cannot describe in words how it felt to sit with him that final time, despite my best efforts. Eventually, I leaned my head on his side and slept, exhausted. I awoke about a half an hour later. My husband was kneeling in the dirt on the other side of Bear, petting him, kissing him, also sobbing. I knew he was devastated too. I cried and cried and cried and said NO a thousand times until I was sick. Then I eventually got up, shaky and weak, kissed his nose one final time, said; goodbye angel, and walked up to the house. I was scheduled to go to work and it was late by then. I did not know what to do, I wandered around, I tried to breathe, I was shocked and devastated. Disbelieving. I did not want to be there when they picked him up. That’s all I kept thinking. I just can't be here when they pick him up. I got dressed and drove to work. It was a new job and I felt I could not call in sick so early in the game. I do not remember getting there, I do not remember driving. I walked straight into a meeting and sat down, stiff and silent. I tried to listen, to breathe, to be normal. Then, someone asked me a question. I looked at them, blinking, uncomprehending. I tried to answer and then blurted out; I just put my horse down this morning, I think I need to go home. There was stunned silence and then immediate words of sympathy, I don’t remember what was said exactly, I got up and ran out of the room. Thankfully I work at a place where people fully understand the bonds between people and their animal family members. I got in my car and drove around, no clear destination, only to end up back home late in the afternoon. I remember very little of that day, just shock and wandering. I remember posting this on Facebook; "It seems impossible to have to say this, but the best horse in the world is gone". Most days I simply still can't believe he is gone. And everyday, absolutely everyday, I wish it wasn't so.

It’s been five months since his death. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Some days it feels like a sharp pain in my stomach that reminds me, suddenly,  that he is gone. The grief catches up, nudges me, takes my breath away, despite my attempts to avoid it.  My house is not the same. My horse paddock is not the same. It feels like the heart of my group has gone. I am trying to get back my enthusiasm for riding, I am trying to put my grief away and turn my attention to my other horses. I am only mildly successful in my efforts. My beautiful farm, my patient and loving husband, my dogs who bring me such joy, they all keep me going and remind me that the world is a beautiful place. Grief is always the price we pay for love and this time is no exception. I had hoped to have Bear here for years to come. I had promised him he would never have to move again and I guess, at least, I did keep my promise. He came home. He slept on shavings and had as much food as he wanted and shelter when it rained. He had his friends who didn't move away and he passed away in the arms of people who loved him dearly. I guess it’s all any of us can hope for in the end. I miss my Bear man. How I miss him. Everyday. My heart is thoroughly broken. I will never forget him. And someday, I hope to see him, where no one can ever separate us again. I’ll see you then Moose, my sweet, beautiful boy, I’ll definitely see you then.

 "Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;

Warm western wind, blow softly here;

Green sod above, lie light, lie light-

Good-night, dear heart, good-night. 

(Robert Richardson)