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Much has been written about the bond between women and horses, yet words fall short at capturing the spiritual/emotional/physical
connection that is wonderfully ours. Our relationships are rich with reciprocated affection, unconditional acceptance,
shared power, and respect for individuality.
My first poem, written when I was nine, concluded, “But though she is old, I love her still, together we stand upon
a hill, my mare and me.” As a girl, an old Welsh pony carried me and my imagination for countless hours along country
roads. As a teen, a once-neglected Arabian mare was more essential to my self esteem than any academic or
community achievement. After college, when my husband proposed, he knew that he would also have to accept a horse
because we were a package deal.
First thing every morning for many years, I have gone to the window to look for my horses in the field, pulled on
barn clothes, stood at the fence, and called to them. No matter where they were, Keeper whinnied in response and came
at a full gallop with Huck close behind. Priceless pleasure.
There is healing to be found in the scent of horses and hay, in the calm that comes when brushing a silky coat, or
in the harmony of moving in unison with the rhythm of a horse’s gait. I have ridden in the early morning dew,
a driving rain, or at midnight under a full moon. I have sought the comfort and companionship of my horses many times
for many reasons when another of my own kind would not do.
Huck was with me for nearly half my life. Keeper, for 21 years. The three of us grew older together.
Keeper began dropping weight in August after a bout with colic. His loving effervescence was replaced by a
haunting sadness. The horses that had always scratched one another’s backs, swatted each other’s flies, and shared
one another’s warmth, now stayed even more closely together as if discussing something they understood but I feared
After Keeper suffered his second heart-wrenching seizure in four days, stumbling to his feet to press his head to
me, his heart pounding fiercely, I too understood. The three of us spent the hour before the vet arrived September 16,
huddled affectionately together, communicating a love that transcends species.
My boys now lie together sheltered within the soil of their field, their hooves entwined.
Do I have the right to grieve so deeply the death of horses when others are grieving the death of humans? Should
I feel so lost over the disruption to my daily routine with them, when other people are numbingly lost after a routine
shaped by decades with a partner? Was I wise to end my horses’ lives together or was I weak because I could
not bear to see one left to mourn the other?
Rational analysis is vital for math and science, but it is useless in matters of the heart and soul. Even religion
is pointless without compassion, for compassion is at the center of Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism. Compassion
for self and others is the essence of all that matters.
I must grieve my loss in my own way as I honor others who grieve in their way for their reasons. I must also trust
that my decision came from a place of compassion, no matter how deeply that place aches and how often tears flow.
As I step to my window, I imagine my beautiful horses galloping joyfully to me across the pasture. We are young again
and filled with promise.
A compassionate Creator promises that I will see them again.
Jan Corey Arnett©2006
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