A language without words

esources. Ah, yes! I'd learn soon how views towards resources were so different.

As a little background, while DF was enjoying the week-long tryst with KMC in Europe in early September 2002 and was not in touch with me until he arrived at the airport in the USA, my pal, Lake, that I'd owned since he was retired from the race track, became gravely ill.

We shared a special bond in the 15+ years we'd worked together ~ one that was constant and considerate. Lake always recognised my vehicle as I'd turn down the sandy lane. He'd lift up his head and greet me with a soft and breathy nuzzle. Despite his scale, being 17.1 hands, and his power, formerly a thoroughbred race horse, not once in the years we worked together did he ever kick, buck or try to ditch me. Ours was a language without words ~ displaying respect, loyalty and kindness.

Labour Day 2002, I'd headed out to the barn to see him, to find he wasn't in the paddock. When I entered the stable, the stable-hand ran over to greet me and tell me that Lake was off his food the prior night and had not eaten that morning, and was likely suffering from colic. They'd administered butyl and done whatever they could, but he wasn't showing improvement. Sure enough, Lake hardly moved when I opened the stall door. The vet had been summoned. I placed a halter on Lake and moved him out to the paddock to see if moving around would ease his discomfort. When the call came in from the vet, he announced that since it was a holiday and he was the only one on emergency calls it would take him a couple of hours to get to us. I watched Lake stand rigidly in the paddock, uninterested in grazing or moving at all and proceeded to prepare a shot of Banamine and walked him for an hour.

It was 2:00pm before the vet arrived, but this time Lake was in a drenched sweat and shaking and had not improved at all after the analgesic I'd given him. After performing a thorough examination, I knew, when he pulled a hypodermic from Lake's gut that was filled with blood that it was bad news. The options were presented to me. Emergency surgery at the nearest Equine Clinic immediately or euthanise him. Prognosis for survival ~ 50% chance he'd die before he arrived at the University Hospital. If he did manage to get to the clinic, only a 50% chance he'd survive the surgery. What to do?

The vet told me the trip the the hospital would take 5 hours and in a the stock trailer the trip itself would be far too uncomfortable for Lake. The only option was to air-lift him and that would be very expensive and would need to be done right away. The air-lift and attempt to save Lake could cost many thousands of dollars and then there were the surgery, recuperation and rehabilitation costs to consider on top of that. My relationship with Lake was worth more than money, yet I was married and I'd never consider making a decision to commit to spending that sort of money without consulting my husband. I called DF in Switzerland to reach the cell phone over and over again. I left messages for him to call me and why I needed to speak with him. No call was returned. I called his sister's place where he was staying ~ no answer. Finally, I called other members of his family, only to learn that they had no idea where he was. After several hours trying to reach him to no avail with Lake's condition worsening, I had to make a painful decision.

I walked Lake out of his stall where the examination had been done to his favourite paddock. The vet left us alone for a few minutes as he prepared two hypodermics. By this time Lake could hardly stand and I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, "I'm so sorry, I'm doing this because I love you and can't bear to see you suffer any more". He turned his head and pressed against me and then nuzzled my face one last time. Without words he communicated to me that he understood, and I believe he was both relieved that he wouldn't have to struggle anymore, but saddened that this would mean a final good-bye".

The vet dropped him in the paddock, I can still hear the thud from his 1350 pound frame falling to the ground; we covered him with a tarpaulin, pegged to the earth with tent stakes so that nothing would get to him before I could arrange for a front-end loader to pick him up and take him to a readied burial site the next day.

The following morning, in my family's vineyard, situated high on a grassy knoll on the peninsula with a view of both bays and rolling hills on which his spirit could roam, I buried Lake; a rock-steady, loyal and devoted friend.

This one's for you, Lake.