Several summers ago, I absconded with an elderly pony gelding. His owner meant well, but one too many times I found Champs without food or water. The sand paddock that housed him lacked protection from wind, rain, and sun. A littering of cow pies spoke of erratic care and an equine digestive system suffering from sand consumption. It was more than I could bear.
I did my best to convince Champs' owner that I was in a better position to care for the ponyafter all, I worked at home and could give him the small, frequent meals he needed. Plus, I lived only minutes away; her daughter could ride him at any time. Unfortunately, the owner was as unable to part with Champs as she was to care for him.
There's a warm place in my heart for older animals. Most of them have paid their duesin companionship, service, and tolerance of our human weaknesses. There is no justice in letting an animal reach this stage in life only to suffer. I was determined to rescue this pony from long, drawn-out suffering.
Since my direct approach didn't work with Champs' owner, I resorted to subterfuge. I received permission to borrow the pony for my daughter's birthday party and trailered him awaywith no intention of returning him to such conditions. With the pony in my barn, I told the owner I couldn't bring him back until she made better arrangements to care for him. To my surprise, she accepted this news gracefully; perhaps relieved to have her work load lightened after all.
I began treating the pony for various medical malfunctions, to which he responded steadily. In the process I fell in love; he was the pony I never had as a girl, an affectionate gentleman who had in his younger days been a prince. I clipped and trimmed, transforming him from a short wooly mammoth into a respectably wooly pony. Watching his health improve was as satisfying as a clean stadium round.
My daily schedule was transformed: revolving around Champs' need for frequent feedings of beet pulp and pellets softened in water; his time-weary teeth were no longer capable of grinding hay or grass into anything palatable. I planned journeys into town, after school activities, and my daily chores around the rhythm of Champs' feeding regimen. An inconvenience? Sometimes, but I never resented it.
In return for my caring, Champs demonstrated an appreciation for the simpler things in life: regular meals, companionship, and romps in the grass. His delight in each meal was a reward for my efforts. Dare I be late, he'd remind me with a shrill whinny. Did he love me in return? Most definitely.
After Champs recovered a bit of weight, my daughter began to ride him. A professional pony, Champs took it as his personal responsibility to stay under my five year old as she hovered above the saddle. When she came thoroughly unglued, he stopped to let her find her stirrups and/or climb off of his neck and back into the saddle. Such things endear a pony to a mother's heart. Unlike many ponies whose names I won't mention, Champs never tried to rid himself of his young rider, despite her squealing and hauling on his mouth. He was a saint among ponies.
My daughter appreciated the fact that her pony took care of her, but longed for a more elegant, smooth-haired pony, like those her friends had. Despite our best efforts, Champs never again had the sheen of a show pony; his once bay coat was a coarse, steel gray. However, looks aren't everything. A wonderful judge with a keen eye spotted Champs in a lead-line class and told my daughter, "I'll bet you have the nicest pony here." She was right. There were fancier poniesbut none were anywhere near as nice.
We lived with Champs for five years, expecting each year to be his last. For several years he surprised us: his health steadily improved and medication for Cushings disease restored his ability to shed his long, curly coat. However as he approached 40, his weight declined again, despite the best in feed and supplements. I began blanketing him earlier in the season, to help maintain his body temperature.
Listening for Champs' whinny each morning became a part of daily life. I'd hold my breath, then smile with relief when I heard his call. To live with Champs was to embrace mortality; I heard the flutter of angel wings with every bout of colic, infection, or downturn in attitude. Having taken him under my protection, I had accepted responsibility for his well-being. His advancing age meant that his death would be my responsibility as well.
I'd lost cats and chickens to natural causes (coyotes) but never had to have an animal euthanized. I didn't want to play god. I was afraid of making a life and death decision; worried about not knowing if I'd picked the "right" time. I hoped Champs would spare me the agony and go peacefully in the night.
Such was not to be the case, however. Champs had more to teach me. On one fine September day, Champs told me he was ready. He left his meals unfinished and, finally, ignored them entirely. With his thin frame I felt certain enduring another winter was more than he could tolerate. As his joints became stiffer, I saw his quality of life slipping away. After giving so much, Champs deserved to be spared this suffering. My fears subsided. Our pony was telling me it was time to go. I brought my daughter out to say good-bye to him, assuring her that Champs had a good life in our care. With the simple faith of a child, Sarah accepted this, and patted Champs good-bye.
When morning came without a miraculous recovery, I put in a call to the vet. Champs had ignored yet another meal. He wandered out to the pasture with the other horses but stood quietly instead of going through the motions of grazing. The vet was delayed. By the time he arrived Champs had returned to his paddock and was lying quietly in the sun.
I sat in the dirt with Champs' head on my lap, stroking his ears as the vet gave him the shots that would make him sleep and, soon after, leave this earth. As I held Champs, thanking him for everything he had given us, my vet said the following words, which I will never forget. "We should all die so wellon a sunny day, at home, in the arms of someone who loves us."
In the end, the decision I'd feared came easily. What better parting gift could I give to someone I loved? I will never again fear giving an animal a peaceful death. We should all liveand dieso well.
In the clouds I imagine Champs cantering above us, in the company of other good ponies. Run, ponies!
This story is a sequel to "Life with Champs," published in the July 1998 issue of Flying Changes magazine, available through the Archives section of the website: www.flyingchanges.com.