Nonfiction by Susan Mannix
I remember the moment. The look he gave me through the iron bars of his stall, straight in my eye, said it all. “It’s time to let me go.”
But I wasn’t ready, no one in my family was, most of all my sixteen year-old daughter Lauren. Tony (Registered Jockey Club name: Spartans Pride) was her heart horse. The one we searched for and she chose. The one who started making her dreams come true. I remembered how her face lit up in surprise and delight as she ran across the grass parking lot to our trailer. “Mom, I won! I won! My first blue ribbon!” She held it up proudly. That was a year ago and just a month after we bought him
What a day that was.
So different from today.
Tony started showing signs of discomfort earlier while Lauren was at school. “Camping out” (stretching his hind legs behind to relieve abdominal pain), pawing, pacing. This wasn’t the first time with him and I waited for it to pass like it usually did.
It didn’t. The pawing became more frantic and he started to roll.
Phone in hand, I ran out into the paddock and hollered at Tony. He popped up and as I lead him into the barn, I called our veterinarian. In the twenty minutes before he arrived, I walked Tony around in the front of our barn to keep him from rolling, which could cause a deadly twist in his intestine.
The vet determined it was an impaction – a blockage caused by a mass of grain and hay in his gut. The only thing to do was pump mineral oil and warm water in him in hopes of loosening it. Once done, Tony was given a dose of Banamine, an equine pain reliever.
The wait began. I checked him often, relieved to see each time he was comfortable. He even passed a little bit of manure – another good sign. Once the drugs wore off in a couple of hours, we’d know more.
The pain returned. Then came the on-call emergency vet. By now Lauren and her sister, Brooke, were home from school and had set up in the barn with a close friend to keep constant watch on Tony. More mineral oil and Banamine, Another wait. If this didn’t work, the only option was surgery.
“He seems more comfortable.”
“I bet this will work.”
“Look, he’s nosing around for hay. That’s a good sign.”
Statements of hope that were delivered with eyes that were desperately grasping for reassurance. To each one I nodded vigorously and gave an enthusiastic “Yes, I agree!” I sent the girls up to the house for a quick break and stayed behind.
The soft spring air and the chirping of the tree frogs could not ease the heavy stillness of the barn. Darkness pressed in on all sides.
I looked into Tony’s face seeking a way to push back the darkness. Our eyes met. Mine begged him to get better; his said it’s time to face what’s happening. That’s when he told me, even though he stood quietly.
Hours before we loaded him onto our trailer and made the fifty-minute drive to the Marion duPont Equine Medical Center in Leesburg. Before his worried, scared eyes said “I can’t do this,” as veterinary techs took his vitals. Before the staff prepped him for emergency surgery, his body wracked with pain. Before my daughter sat for hours on the cold hard floor of a dimly lit hallway, offering up her dreams so her horse could graze once again in our pasture.
Before the phone call that woke us after only two hours sleep.
Before the desperate voice of the veterinary surgeon came through the receiver begging for permission to let him go.
Before I knew it was time, Tony told me.
Susan Mannix is from Maryland, where she lives on a small farm with her family and menagerie of horses, dogs & cats. Formerly a biomedical research editor, she is now working towards a Master’s degree in creative writing from Wilkes University. Find her at susanmannix.com and on Twitter at @lynsuze.
