Little Brown Horse

My Foxy

This is a really long entry. That's what happens when I don't regularly purge. Sorry for the wordiness. It just needed to get out.

I inherited my love of horses from my mom, who, in turn, had inherited it from her father. Other members of our family had, at times, been appreciaters of the Equine... I used to take riding lessons with Adrian, there are photos of all of us riding with cousins or friends. But over the years, that young-girl horse love seemed to fade from everyone but me. It was something that my mom and I truly shared, something that bonded us together. We could spend HOURS just looking at tack, have our breath taken away by a truly beautiful specimen of horse flesh... stand for hours in the barn just breathing in that magical, singular smell of HORSE. My mom understood my NEED for horse time. She would sometimes recommend to me, if I seemed particularly irritable, that I spend a few hours riding. It never ceased to lift my spirits. Years ago, she and I used to ride together... she on Star, and I on my sweet little pony Cookie. We would ride through the apple orchards that surrounded our house, the same orchards she and her father had ridden through. As the years went by and the neighborhood changed, I began to realize how truly unique it was that we had a horse in the backyard. As a young girl, when others would ride their bikes, I would cruise around on my grey pony. We were fairly well known in the area, and it was not unusual for the residents in East Orem to hear the sound of hoofbeats echo down the street, from any number of horsepeople who lived and rode in the area. Slowly, the horse property disappeared, the C-C where I had grown up riding became a housing development. The orchards turned into oversized homes. I still continued to ride the same routes to get to the foothills, but instead of tree-lined paths, I followed paved roads, waited at lights so I could cross with the signal, dodged cars, and got stares of disbelief that there was a HORSE walking down the street with a human attached.

Many amazing and wonderful horses adorned the yard at 275 North. There was Star, Twinkle Toes, Aries, Suzy, the amazing Cookie, Princess Pride, Lorenzo Snow, Wilaska, Calaban, Haley, Flash, and finally Little Fox Mulder. The coming and going of these amazing horses was never random. Each came at a certain time, with a certain job to do in my life. I still insist that I am who I am because of the patience of a little Shetland pony who my parents sought out for us when we were just able to walk. He was a fixture in my life from 5 to 19. The day he left us was one of the most tragic and heartbreaking of my life up to that point. The backyard was also the deathbed of Lorenzo and Willie, both of whom left holes in my heart. Willie was my dearest friend, a beautiful girl who was born a week after I was and was part of my life for 28 years. That's a long friendship.

After I lost Willie, I still had Haley, but was searching for the "right" horse. He actually found me-- in the silly Thrifty Nickel of all places. I am a habitual ads browser, and for weeks this one ad for "15 year old sorrel Arabian gelding- used in parades" kept leaping off the page. One day I convinced my new friend Jeff to drive to Peoa, Utah with me to meet this little horse who wouldn't leave me alone. He was the littlest, scrawniest thing I have ever seen. One eye was sunken in, he was muddy and dirty and covered with scars. The people explained that they had gotten him as a trade, didn't really know much history, and that he was the smallest horse in the pasture and was always picked on by the larger horses. He and I immediately hit it off. I needed my mom's approval before I could get any horse... she was, after all, the reason I had this insatiable need for a horse friend. It was hours before she could make it to Peoa to give her approval. When she got there, she didn't give it. She saw the homely, scrawny beast where I saw a gallant steed. We disagreed, I rebelled, and paid the $750 to take this little horse away from this place that was so "wrong" for him. His name was Ahab. Ahab the Arab. I didn't like it. It didn't fit. After I got him home and washed and brushed, his beautiful fox-red hair just shone. I started calling him Fox as a simple default, and eventually it stuck... It was eventually expanded to Fox Mulder, but "Foxy" it stayed. He was quick, alert, and wanted to please. He immediately proved his worth when I got him under saddle. He apparently transformed into the proud, beautiful Arabian I had seen all along. My mom was speechless. But I had known him already in my heart. He proved himself to be the toughest little mountain horse I have ever owned. He would climb over, around, or through anything I asked him to. He would listen so carefully to each cue I gave him, and loved to face challenges. I found myself having to hold him back... he'd get so excited to run up hills that I worried about him overdoing it.

One summer day, we had a particularly memorable outing. I had a whole Saturday, a rare treat at that point in my life, and decided to spend it in the mountains with my little Fox. The goal was to make it far enough up the front side of Timp to reach the snowfield that still hadn't melted. This was quite a ways up, further than I had been on this side of the mountain in many, many years. Little Fox couldn't get there fast enough. He must have been reading my mind, because I would let him choose the trails, and he was heading exactly where I wanted to go. We found ourselves on a small deer track that headed into a stand of scrub oak. I could see the path open up again on the other side, so didn't hesitate to head into the oak. Well, the path got smaller, narrower, and more filled with debris. I eventually got off and led Fox behind me. Then we lost the path altogether. We had climbed over, under, and through so many little holes in the twisted oak that I could no longer see any semblance of the trail. So I decided that we should turn around and go back down. The trees were so thick that Fox had to practically sit on his haunches to get turned around. But turn he did. And as I headed back in what I thought was the direction we had come, we became stuck. There were trees above and below us, branches everywhere. Now, at this point I realized that I could probably get out. But how do you get a 850 pound creature out with you? Fox had, apparently, figured this out already. That sweet little guy leaned his head into my back, and followed me, unquestioning, over and under, around and through everywhere I went. There were times when he was on his knees, or jumping over branches that I had to climb over. But he trusted me completely. It was an experience that bonded us forever. Yes, we did get out, but no, we didn't ever make it to that snowfield. But we did see deer, foxes, porcupines, raccoons, rabbits, and other horseback explorers.

Sweet Little Fox lived in the backyard so happily. He thought he was a person. I used to let him run loose and graze on the lawn. He would come and stand at the patio door and look at us inside. He would gladly have come in to sit on the couch with us if we'd let him. He did climb up on the deck a few times, and feasted on the petunias. He love to chase Kiste, loved to "scare" himself and run off full speed, tail fanning behind him, neck bowed, ears pricked. He turned into a really beautiful little horse. He was always very petite, but tough as nails.

He and I shared a beautiful day with Mom and Grandma Johnson, just a few weeks before mom died. We loaded him up in the trailer, mom and her wheelchair in the car, and went to South Fork canyon. It was a glorious spring day. Mom and grandma shared a special day reading and visiting, while my sweet horse and dogs went on a springtime jaunt through the beautiful mountains. We will all treasure that day, and the picnic we shared afterwards.

Fox took the move from the Yellow House almost as hard as I did, I think. I don't know how much of his change was a reflection of my own depression, but he truly became a very sad little horse. He spent time in a pasture by the lake, where he mourned the lack of human companionship. He also spent some glorious months living at RiverWoods where he would delight in chatting with me everytime I would go outside. That was a good situation for him, because he could be a "human" like he thought he was. He lived a few wonderful months growing full on orchard grass just down the street from where I worked. But he suffered a strange sort of physical change... He couldn't keep any weight on. His coat got rough and dull. Numerous vet visits and tests never came up with any definitive reason for his downward spiral. He had some good days, some bad. But was sometimes very irritable. That was the biggest change I saw. He would be just plain grumpy. Some days were okay, but my heart just ached for him. I truly believe that he was mourning the loss of his old life. Maybe I'm projecting my own sorrow, but he was just never the same after we left the Yellow House. I began trying to find a new home for him. But nothing was right. He was so special to me. He did cheer up a little bit last fall, but then suffered an injury to his left eye that set him back, again. For a while, a feared that he might lose the eye, but it did begin to heal. In November, dear Jenine offered to let Fox live at her house in Highland with her horses. I thought this would be perfect for him... a backyard, other horses for company, a steady, quiet place to live. He did okay. He never really put on weight like he should have. Jenine said he got on well with her horses. The winter months made visiting him very hard for me. It was a 30 minute drive each way, and there was simply not enough daylight. I did make one middle-of-the-night-in-the-pitch-black visit, just to kiss him on his sweet nose. Then a few weeks ago, although everything tried to conspire against me, I did make it out to see him in the daylight. I took him waffles, a favorite treat. I got to give him some sweet horse-nose kisses. My favorite.

Why this eternal entry? I have to get this all out, I guess. On Thursday night, I was home making dinner and Jenine called me to say that Fox was sick. Really sick. He could stand a little bit, she said, but then would collapse. I have been through colic with a few other horses. It can be life threatening if not caught early enough. Horses get colic for lots of different reasons, but what happens in they get either air or some sort of impaction (food, feces, even parasites) in their digestive tract, and in order to relieve the pain and pressure, they lay down and roll. The problem with this is that the weight of their own body can crush vital organs, or the rolling can cause a torsion-- a twist in the stomach or bowel which then cuts of circulation to the organs... you get the picture. I had been thinking about Fox all day that day. I was daydreaming about spring coming and our rides in the mountains. I knew how much good it would do both of us. But the whole drive to Jenine's, I just knew inside that he wasn't going to make it. When I got there and saw him struggling to stand, my heart just broke. He abdomen was distended and tight like a drum. He saw me and tried to walk over to me, and just collapsed in pain again. It was unlike any colic I've ever seen. He'd been down too long. When I listened to his stomach, he had no gut sounds at all... meaning that nothing was able to move. He was either completely blocked or had a torsion. He was just writhing in pain. If he had been younger and stronger, he might have been a surgical candidate. But he was already so weak. The only kind thing to do was to let him go. I tried so hard to be brave as the euthanasia solution released him from his pain, but my heart just broke in two. He finally began to relax and breathe easier, and eventually his heart stopped. I thought of all my dear horses who have already gone before, and hope that Fox is now running in that glorious herd. I leaned over to give him a last horse kiss in his velvet nostril, and although I know it was just a reflex in his dying body, the snort that he gave back was so precious to me.

I mourn the loss of my precious little Fox. I mourn the loss of my last horse. For the first time in my life, I don't have a horse. And it isn't something that non-horse lovers understand. There is something so earthy and primeval in the relationship between man and horse, a relationship that we have shared for millenia. And a very large part of me mourns this tie that bound me to my mother and her father before. I won't ever lose my love of horses. But I won't ever share that bond in the way I have with horses that were also loved and known by my mother. So, like everything it seems, the death of Fox is another reminder, another prick in my heart, another loss that can't seem to be measured. Or understood by so many who just don't know what it is like.

Little Brown Horse