The hardest part is watching the grass grow back in your spot by the tree. Watching the earth cover up the imprints of your hooves and the dirt patch where you’d always eat your breakfast with the turkeys. The emptiness of the grass platform that held your blue water tub in the summers and your black heated tub in the winters. The gate to the garage area that has remained open since, and the absence of reason to close it. The quiet hum of the day, uninterrupted by an unplugged fan in your walk in. The dust on the latch on your stall door. Your hanging halter.
A final goodbye is inevitable for all of us, no matter how badly we want to live forever and ever. But when that goodbye comes, it’s a break in the space-time continuum that no amount of reasoning can comprehend. The space you occupy is negative now and time in a sense continues but your time does not. Apart from the full body sobbing, I think what makes grief so exhausting is your brain working overtime to reason through death. The “breaking of the brain-body connection” as the veterinarian explained.
In attempts to comfort those grieving, we look for ways to help. We ask, “What can I do?” We say, “Let me know if you need anything.” But we all know full well that the only thing that person needs is for the grief to be gone and the being to be back and healthy and vibrant. And no amount of ice cream, long walks, tears, or tacos can do that. We just have to live in the grief, try to forget that something isn’t missing at times so we can carry on, and cry silent tears when a memory slips back through the cracks.
I once saw grief explained in a piece of artwork. The artist first paints a large overwhelmingly black shape in the middle of the canvas. As the painting progresses, they paint layers around the black shape, some bright, some dark, some thick, some thin, until there is more color on the canvas than there is darkness in the middle. I don’t expect the grief to go away, that I’ll ever forget the hurt and pain of losing him. But I hope one day there will be enough life, memories, and new experiences after the hurt, that I may be able see a bigger picture than just that dark emptiness that gnaws at my heart.
Last summer, he had a sidewinding flare-up and there was one day in particular that he had a challenging time balancing for his farrier appointment. We’d let him lean against the wall whenever possible to give him some support, and at times I would stand with my hand gently on his hindquarter to give him proprioceptive support. I watched his muscles quiver with effort and he could only manage short bursts of trimming. Afterwards, I sat on the concrete ramp leading into the barn, watching him graze in the shade of his tree and let the tears run down my face. I was so scared of what it would feel like to lose him one day. I was so scared that I wouldn’t do right by him and I’d make the choice too soon or too late. I’m not one to write a lot of poems, but I’d been encouraged by a friend to journal that summer and so I let my thoughts flow freely to try to calm my terrified brain.
A few days after he crossed the rainbow bridge, I was flipping through the pages of my journal to find this poem again. I gasped when I saw the date: August 2, 2022. Exactly one year before the day we said our final goodbye. The universe is a freaky place, but this one really took my breath away.
“The Earth is Safe”
It’s hard watching your legs betray you.
They used to catch you and keep you from falling,
but now they falter, slip, twist, miss.
You search the ground for a safe place to roll,
but the ground is safe,
it’s you that’s not.
You welcome your kingdom each morning,
allow the sun to stroke your forehead with its warmth
as you check to make sure everything’s the same as it’s been.
You rely on the kindness of routine:
“Hey Bud,”
spoken lovingly in soft tones by MTG as he unlatches your door
Breakfast mash around the corner
Turkey friends sunning themselves on the fence
A day of chirping birds, buzzing flies, singing grasshoppers, rumbling thunder
Snacks next to your fan all day long.
“Hi beautiful. How was your day, bubba?”
from the girl that sang you “The Circle Game” when the roof clanged with hail.
Scratches, softness, sprays that smell funny
Cookies – sweet, crunchy, chewy
Maybe she asks you to show off your special trick
You try to give her your hooves, but you don’t always trust your legs
Sometimes you grab the towel from her hand and toss it in circles
You give her endless kisses, covering her salty arms with your gratitude.
Dinner: always soaked, sometimes sloppy,
in a clean comfortable stall where you can look out at the stars and rest against the walls.
“Goodnight, Pi. Sweet dreams my angel, momma loves you. See you tomorrow.”
Click. Darkness. Moonlight.
Some days she brings friends who bring more cookies.
Some days the banana man whistles to you across the field and sits on a rock with his sketch pad watching you graze.
Some days she just comes and sits with you until dinner.
(You’re not sure why she doesn’t eat the grass, but she’s there and that’s enough.)
Some days you convince her to let you visit the front field
You beg her to run, but she says your legs can’t be trusted.
The ground is safe.
It held you up on the day you were born.
It propelled you as you learned to run.
It let you fly over fallen trees in the woods when you learned to chase the howling dogs.
It kept you strong as you aged, challenging you with rocks and divots and hills that let you grab the grass with your toes.
She tells you one day the earth will welcome you back
hold you in its embrace
and it will feel safe again instead of scary.
She tells you she’ll be there
every day
until you fall asleep in the sun,
head cushioned by the grass in your favorite spot.
To you the day is the day.
We take what comes
And weather what we can.
As long as the blossoms still cling to the vine
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
Ere I forget all the joy that is mine
Today.
Love you forever and always my sweet, sweet Pi. You made me who I am today, and this next chapter is going to be tough to figure out who I am without you by my side. Thank you for all the todays we shared, I’ll see you tomorrow one day.
Pilot, “Pi”
March 27, 1989 – August 2, 2023
It is unfathomable to me that I’ve said goodbye to my best friend. He crossed the rainbow bridge surrounded by all of his people on the most beautiful, blue sky August day, with the taste of carrots lingering in his mouth.
Pilot gave life his all and his fighting spirit was strong until the very end. More than anything, Pi taught me how to listen so very closely to everything he needed to say and that’s a gift I’ll never be able to repay him for.
Pilot began his life in Kentucky (5 years before I was even born), then moved to Texas, before arriving in New York, and eventually to Massachusetts.
He excelled as a fox hunting horse, adventuring through the trails with his friends, and jumping anything in his path. He always knew where he was, and I’d often drop the reins on our adventures and say, “Take us home Pi,” and he would. But always on the path that had a steep hill that he loved to rush down. He was a rule breaker and didn’t much care for ring work, but was willing to do what I asked as long as he could voice his opinion. Out in the field, though, he’d gallop as hard and fast as he could, letting his legs kick up in joy, but never enough to unseat me.
Our journey started officially in 2009, when his generous owner, Jennifer, offered him to me as a free lease and all she asked was that I love on him. He was my rock throughout high school, my escape, and he gave me the confidence to be me.
In 2014, he moved to Millborn Farm under the ownership of David and Mia who lovingly took him in as a companion to their mare, Vienna. On Thanksgiving break, having returned from college, I showed up at their doorstep with a plate of brownies and asked if it would be okay for me to visit Pi. Overwhelmingly, they welcomed me to their home and allowed me to ride him and continue loving on him. Over the years, Pi lost Vienna and David, and I took on a more consistent role as his caregiver with the support of Mia and Marshall the Great (MTG), the farm manager.
We explored all the trails in and around Millborn, played together in the front field, watched the turkeys hop around in the trees, tried to make friends with the deer, grazed bareback outside his barn, listened to the coyotes howl at night, counted the stars, and watched the sun rise over the dewy pasture together. I could always count on that big white blaze to pop up from somewhere in the field when I called his name for dinner. By the end, my dad (the banana man) had him trained to come to him from a whistle.
The best silver lining of losing my job during the pandemic was that it brought me home to him. I’ve had the absolute joy of being with Pi every day, sometimes 2-3x a day for the last 3 years. We learned to read each other’s souls with as little as a glance. I supported and assisted him as best I could and he’d tell me he was just fine and to stop worrying. But the other night I could feel him saying, “I’m trying, but I’m just so tired.” And I said, “I know Bubba, it’s okay.”
I’ve cried over this day for years but now that’s it’s here I just feel empty. No words can express my grief and there are no more plans left for how to make him better. We just have to know that he’ll always be with us as long as we hold onto his ferocious spirit.
He was laid to rest in his most favorite spot, atop his hill, overlooking his kingdom, forever.
Rest in peace, my sweet sweet boy and know that I’m so grateful for every today you gave me. You are so so loved, but you knew that already.
P.S. Thank you to everyone who was a part of his journey and his life – know that I have nothing but love in my heart for everyone who helped him (and me) along the way and made sure he was safe and comfortable until the end.
