This is Bubba.
He’s 27 and yes, that’s old for a horse. I retired him in 1999 due to some soundness issues never dreaming
he’d still be on the payroll all these many years later. In fact, I’ve often complained about just
that, wondering when the old coot was going to stop draining my dwindling funds
to pay for a retirement that is far better than anything I’ll ever be able to afford
for myself. Not long ago, in a moment of
fiscal frustration, I even uttered the words, “When is that damn horse going to
die?” I was ashamed the moment they
spewed from my lips and I took them back immediately, but it was too late. The Universe had heard.
When it comes to my animals, end-of-life decisions
have rarely been clear-cut. More often
than not, I’ve allowed more time to pass than I should have and regretted it in
hindsight. Hindsight sucks. As Bubba grew older, I swore that when his
time came I would not put him, myself or my bank account through needless
suffering by prolonging the inevitable. I’d given him the best quality of life
a horse could want and there would be no regrets. My prayer, of course, was that one warm,
sunny day he would simply lie down in his green pasture to nap and peacefully
drift away, saving me from the difficult duty of having to play God. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s in His job
description. It sure as hell isn’t in
mine.
Bubba first took ill on Thanksgiving. (Note:
Horses have the uncanny ability to know when it’s a holiday and veterinarian
calls double in rate.) The signs were
subtle. He was off his feed a bit. Probably a mild colic and was treated for
such. But by the weekend, his temperature was 103.6, over four degrees above
normal, and it was clear something else was going on. A full blood panel was ordered. Expensive, yes, but at least I’d know
something definitive and a decision – the
decision – could be made if need be.
And here’s where the Universe steps in… The blood
work came back clean. Yep. All systems go. And yet he’s clearly sick. But how sick? Is it his time or isn’t it? What do I do?
As I write this, it’s been a week of taking his
temperature three times a day in the “exit only” region, inspecting his stall
for the blessed sight of fresh manure, and walking him out to graze. (Oh, yeah
– he quickly figured out that I will, in fact, stand out in the pouring rain
with him so he can have his much-preferred fresh grass.) There have been antibiotics that must be
dissolved in water and squirted into his mouth every 12 hours via a large
syringe. As you might guess, Bubba is
none too fond of this and so the amount I actually get down his throat as
opposed to the amount of the pricey brew that he spits in my face just adds to
the merriment. His water intake must be
monitored and the large, heavy bucket cleaned out twice daily to keep the water
fresh and inviting to his picky palate. My
lower back is crying “Uncle” and it’s not alone.
Bubba has four more days to go on the
antibiotics. I can tell that he feels
like crap, but no more than you or I with a bad case of the flu. Can he rally?
I don’t know. The definitive
answer I need in order to make that end-of-life decision continues to elude
me. Meanwhile, he still shows an interest
in eating and if he’s not ready to give up, then neither am I. I want him to live. I want him to still have that chance to check
out on his own in his beloved sunny pasture, and I swear I’ll never again
complain about a single buck I spend on his care. You hear that, Universe?
The moral of the story is this: Guard your words, my friends, because the
Universe is always standing by and eager to test your resolve.
