Girgadis Mist and Friends

I mentioned earlier that my oldest daughter studied equine science and barn management for a short while.  Although we live in South Philadelphia and are of modest means, she rode from the time she was six years old.   She was pretty fearless but more importantly, she had a very gentle touch that nearly every horse she rode took to immediately.  Pictured above is one of the horses she showed locally.  It was a sad day for me when she decided to take down her ribbons, which decorated the entire perimeter of her room on a wire cord.  Misty, pictured above, seemed to adore Caitlin and in return, I adored Misty.  One day, I tried to bring  her in from the paddock and she gave me a hard time, running in the opposite direction from me.  I hadn't brought any treats with me to lure her, so I went into the trunk of my car and opened a bag of carrots I had brought for her.  Taking a single carrot with me into the paddock, I walked toward the corner where Misty was hanging out.  Suddenly, she charged at me, full tilt boogie, and I closed my eyes and waited for death.  She skidded to a perfect halt so that we were literally nose to nose. Then she took the carrot and let me put a lead rope on her and lead her in.  I don't know that I ever came so close to buying the farm, as they say, but Misty had it all under control.

A few years earlier, my sister caught the equine bug and she quickly decided she didn't like riding schoolies, so she bought herself a horse She could not have children, so she could afford the expense.  All my life I wished I could have one, so I was thrilled because I was the more experienced rider and my sister liked letting me tune up her horse for so that he was safer for her when she rode.  Tempe was an older gentleman horse, a Hanoverian who had been imported from Germany and he had the trademark Hanoverian brand on his rump.  He loved to eat treats of any kind.

I decided that when Tempe saw us, he didn't see people, but the individual treats we came to represent.  For instance, my sister was a bag of Stud Muffins, a decadent equine treat loaded with oats and molasses.  My children were bags of carrots and I, his Aunt Joyce, was a can of Pepsi.  Occasionally, on a hot day after cooling him out, I would let him share a can of Pepsi with me.  He would carefully slurp from the can, toss back his head, and then his eyes would roll around as if he was in some kind of Nirvana.

Tempe could be a handful when a mare was around. He would get himself so worked up, we had the vet run some testosterone tests on him.  He was a gelding, but he didn't  behave like one when it came to women. Still, the sight of his bridle and saddle would always bring him back to the reality that he had to go work and he would calm down enough that we could tack him up.  When I would attempt to put his bridle on, he would lower his head way low, where I could reach, as if to say: "Madame, I am now completely at your service."

One day shortly after I turned him out at pasture, a woman came running into the barn in hysterics because two horses were fighting and one of them had kicked the other, knocking him to the ground.  My heart sank as I ran out with her to the paddock.  Tempe was standing there in shock, bleeding from a wound to his shoulder.  The horse who had inflicted the damage was a Fresian, who was cavorting with the same mare that Tempe had taken a fancy to.  By some miracle, I was able to lead him back to the barn.  We called the vet and my sister and gave him some Bute, which is the equivalent of horse aspirin.  The vet suspected he may have sustained a fractured shoulder, but the only way to tell for sure was to get an x ray, and we needed to take him to New Bolton for that (New Bolton is the same equine hospital that the racehorse Barbaro was taken to following his breakdown in the Preakness).  Worse, he'd have to be shipped in the trailer and the vet wasn't sure he'd be able to withstand the ride.  She cleaned the wound out and left some antibiotics to give him.

For three weeks, I drove out to the barn nearly every day to tend to him.  I would take him into the wash stall, run cold water over his shoulder, and insert some antibiotic ointment into the puncture wound.  I also had to take his temperature.  Horses don't open their mouths for you, so you can guess where the thermometer went.  Tempe hated the wash stall, but he was very good about letting me take his temp.  I would walk him back to the aisle and wrap his legs in standing bandages.  As I knelt down to apply the wraps, I would occasionally feel his nuzzle in my hair, as if to say "Hey, thanks for doing this for me."  I hated the fact that he was hurt, but I was grateful for the opportunity to be able to spend so much time with him.

Tempe couldn't be turned out with other horses and we never turned him out alone in case he worsened.  One sunny October day when I didn't have to work, I took Rebecca, who was four at the time, to the barn to visit "Uncle Tempe".  He neighed loudly when he saw us, so I took a bag of carrots and brought him into the small paddock to enjoy the sunshine.  I was sitting on a rock scrubbing out the water trough in the paddock when I heard Tempe behind me.  He stomped his hoof one time, and then he lowered his head over my shoulder, so that our cheeks were touching.  And I knew what he was telling me.  He was telling me that he had had enough.  I called my sister and told her we needed to put him down, soon, before he grew too uncomfortable. Although he still had a good appetite, he had lost several hundred pounds, and he was no better.  He would never be able to be turned out with other horses again, and that was what he lived for.

We set it up with the vet for Monday, after the weekend.  It was a very sad and difficult thing to do,  but through the grief I felt incredibly blessed to have known such a beautiful animal.  I was away from the church at the time this all happened, but I also knew there was no way I could ever look into the face of a horse and deny the existence of God, the Creator of all things.