Processing Grief After the Loss of a Horse

It has taken me ten years to write this. Coping with the loss of a horse–our beloved mare Shush, after my mother’s suicide triggered immense grief and guilt. The words came in fits and starts, surfacing in waves. Only now have I found the courage to sit with them fully, revisiting the experience while committing them to the page.

 

 

A Vision of Our Horse, Shush

Recently one morning, I woke earlier than usual, startled by the whistling sound of a descending passenger plane overhead. Not ready to rise, I chose a familiar guided grounding meditation to reset my nervous system. Imagining myself sitting on the boathouse dock at Blackberry Farm, I drifted into another state of consciousness. I saw two of our childhood horses–Morgan mares–Savannah and Shush, grazing along the edge of the pond, just as they’d done at our home in Vermont for decades.

 

This time, when prompted by the meditation, I didn’t see my spirit guides or my mother as usual, I saw our horse Shush. Her dark bay body was in front of me, standing with a sense of presence. I felt myself swell with ten years of grief. I could not have known that morning, standing with her image in my mind, that I would once again relive the loss of a beloved horse.

 

I started to cry. In my mind, I folded my arms around her broad neck and lay across her warm plush body, thick with her winter coat, aching with the guilt of choosing when to end her life. It felt like a monumental betrayal after so many years as a member of our family.

 

Remembering Shush

Over the years, Shush kept of me safe while she carried me on her back willingly for miles. She confidently transported me through open fields and thick forests, up and down mountains, and across babbling streams.

 

When I was 15, she surprised all of us the day she gave birth to a filly, Clementine, in the afternoon instead of at night, which is more typical. At the time, I was home alone, left to assist in her delivery without my parents’ help. As her midwife, I pulled the amniotic sac away from the filly’s face with my bare hands. I cleaned her nose to ensure she was breathing, just as I’d watched my mother do with our other foals. Shush watched me handle her sweet baby, trusting my every move.

 

My late mother loved Shush deeply, just as I did–as her daily caretaker and confidant perhaps even more so. Mom had such a profound spiritual connection to our horses. She spent her last hours photographing them while they grazed in the morning mist next to our pond. Then she got in the car accompanied by a handgun loaded with a single bullet, drove to a place with no known significance, and ended her life.

 

 

Preparing for the Loss of a Horse

The day we said goodbye to Shush was one of the most heartbreaking moments in a long line of tragedies. As a young child, I’d been present for the euthanization of two of our other horses: my first pony, Star, a stocky bay with a white star on her forehead, and Max, a laidback gelding, and Star’s companion. Saying goodbye to an animal you love is always painful, but my sadness then paled in comparison to the heartbreak I felt in the wake of Shush’s passing.

 

Making respectful and dignified end-of-life decisions for horses is a multi-step process that requires coordination. In this case, with my younger sister, Tracy, a family friend with a backhoe, and an equine veterinarian. The weather needs to be agreeable, too.

 

Shush’s end-of-life ceremony began in the afternoon on the last sunny day in November of 2014. It was unseasonably warm. Tracy and I collected her from the pasture and led her to the barn our dad built. We groomed her with intention, knowing it was the last time.

 

Shush never liked her face touched, so I moved slowly while brushing the long, black forelock that fell across her forehead. Beneath it grew a hidden patch of soft, white hairs representing her 31 years. I could smell her warm breath and felt the tickle of whiskers as I kissed her velvety nose.

 

She was notorious for refusing to lift her feet to have her hooves picked. I had to lean on her with the weight of my entire body, or gently poke her with a spike before she’d comply. On that final day when she resisted, I let her get away with it and I sensed it pleased her. It didn’t matter anymore. She could have the last word in that argument.

 

 

Shush’s Last Moments

Once groomed, we led Shush into the yard to graze while we took turns capturing photographs with her. I revisit those images every so often, and while they tear my heart open with sadness I cannot seem to shake, they also fill me with love and gratitude. So much was taken from my sister and me in the years that followed my mother’s suicide. There were years of death and loss. I find comfort that this moment, although raw and emotional, was ours to share. It cannot be taken from us.

 

The sun was warm and shone on us as if to light her way to the other side. Shush was calm and enthusiastic about munching on the little remaining grass. I sensed she understood what was about to happen and felt her forgiveness. We let her sniff noses across the fence to say goodbye to our last remaining mare, Savannah before we led her to the spot where her life would end.

 

Horses are large animals that spend most of their time standing. To bury them properly, you need a backhoe to dig a hole roughly the size of a small car. You can’t pick them up and gently place their body in the ground like a dog or a cat. You must lead them to it before they go down and use a tractor to push them in once they’ve passed. Ever trusting and loyal, they will follow you to their literal grave.

 

To prepare, the vet shaved a small patch of fur from Shush’s neck so he could access the vein easily. Next, he inserted a catheter to administer the medications. First, Shush was given a sedative to make her groggy. We led her to her final resting place in the pasture, where she was given an additional sedative–enough to knock her out.

 

When a horse goes down, it happens fast, and it’s loud. Their legs fold sharply beneath them, and they drop straight to the ground with finality. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever witnessed–and not for the faint of heart.

 

Our vet was experienced and wonderful. He stood at Shush’s head facing her, holding the lead line under her chin, his legs in a wide stance to brace himself as he directed which way she’d fall. The catheter had to be accessible for the euthanasia.

 

Tracy and I stood behind him safe from the fall zone, but where Shush could see us. We held hands tightly and watched as her 1200-pound body collapsed to the ground like a magnet, with unbelievable speed and ferocity. Tracy cried out and I wrapped my arms around her while we both sobbed.

 

Once Shush was lying on the ground and peacefully sleeping, the vet administered the lethal medication that would stop her heart. We crouched next to her body, stroking it lovingly while thanking her for her years of service. We reassured her that she was about to see Mom; she was about to be free.

 

Being Present for Her Final Moments

While difficult to watch, I could not look away. It was an honorable thing to be a witness to the very last moments of my friend’s life, no matter how distressing.

 

It would be cowardly not to share this experience with her, so I knelt beside her and spoke soft words of love into her fuzzy ears as she died. I felt I owed it to her to be present during her transition. I owed it to my mother: who was brave enough to take her own life, but not brave enough to live it. Who passed the burden of choice to her 26- and 29-year-old daughters.

 

We grew up alongside Shush and Savannah like sisters–we were nearly the same age. Although we didn’t want to lose them, we couldn’t continue to care for them.

 

And so, I watched her drop to the cold ground. I watched her lie still under the autumn sunshine while she took her last breath. When the sheen from her eyes vanished, I knew her soul had left her body. Her spirit was running free in a field somewhere, and I’m pretty sure I know just the one.

 

 

Betrayal and Mercy: The Burden of Choice

Elise Loehnen, wrote “…The fascinating thing about horses is the question of who has the power… They give you the illusion of control–you have the reins after all–but when you’re going flat out, or swimming a river together, or climbing a mountain, there’s really no mystery about who is in charge. And yet, faith must run in both directions, as well as trust…”

 

Choosing to end Shush’s life felt like a betrayal of her trust. She dutifully carried us safely upon her back for countless rides and did so with genuine joy.

 

Through thousands of years of domestication, horses have been bred to serve alongside us–in forests, fields, rings and battles–carrying the weight of our bodies as their own. It is their purpose. They have been our servants and companions, to whom our entire civilization owes a great deal of gratitude and respect.

 

The choice to end Shush’s life was, in a sense, a refusal to carry the burden and expense of her care, despite the years that she carried us faithfully. But there was also an element of mercy in our decision.

 

Vermont winters can be brutal. I worried it would be too hard on her aging body, and we’d be forced toward emergency euthanization to end her potential suffering, (while I was living 900 miles away).

 

Additionally, when a horse dies in the winter in Vermont, it can’t be buried until spring when the ground thaws. Their remains must be covered with tarps weighed down by rocks (and hopefully snow) to protect them from wild animals. We didn’t want to take that chance and miss the opportunity to honor her life with dignity, to hold a ceremony to celebrate her contribution to our family, to say goodbye with thoughtful, loving intention, and to stand with her in her final moments.

 

Like my mother, Shush was the matriarch of our herd. Other horses came and went over the years but Shush asserted herself as the lead mare at the top of the pecking order. She deserved an intentional transition in keeping with her status, and that’s what we gave her.

 

Often, the right choices are the hardest to make. My heart aches even now.

 

The Farm Falls Silent

Years later, memories of November 23, 2014, are still agonizing. I lost my dear four-legged friend by my own choosing, and in doing so, I relived the loss of my mother, who’d taken her own life 14 months prior.

 

Tracy and I were preparing to sell our family home, another foundational character in the story of our childhood. The land that had nurtured us our whole lives always felt sacred. It was a safe place to return to, and soon, it too, would be out of our hands.

 

Tracy’s mare, Savannah, was 2-3 years younger than Shush, and still healthy at the time. We wanted to rehome her close by where Tracy could visit her to ensure she was safe from the horrors of a slaughterhouse in her final years–a still too common practice we are vehemently opposed to. She arranged for Savannah to move to the farm at the foot of our hill, a mile away.

 

On that late November day, Savannah’s life took a sudden turn too. First, she said goodbye to her longtime companion. Then she left her home of twenty years. Savannah was the last to leave our home. The remaining people and pets had already relocated.

 

Alone, Tracy led her up our long driveway, down the steep dirt road, to the farm where she would live out her remaining years. I listened from the front porch as her hooves clicking up the gravel drive slowly faded. Her tail gently swished back and forth as she walked away. It felt as if everything we’d ever loved was gone. All that remained was heartbreak and silence.

 

 

Three days later the weather turned, and the earth was coated with six inches of powdery white snow. While the walls of our home still stood strong, the land felt eerie and lifeless without the horses in sight. I kept looking toward the pasture expectantly, hoping to see their dark bodies contrasting against the fresh snow, their warm breath sweet with hay rising in the cold. I tried so hard to see them, but this was not a nightmare from which I could awake. They were gone.

 

Winter arrived, closing the curtain on this chapter of our lives. Nothing would ever be the same. Spring, it seemed, would never come.

 

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