On the Death of a Horse

[Michael Colby]

Big John, R.I.P.

My trusty old horse, Big John, died on Friday. He was 23 years old. And the best damn horse around. Period.

Friday started out like the perfect day. It was mild. The fresh snow was hanging in the trees and the sun was making everything magically sparkle. And we had work to do since a neighbor, friend and client had put in an order for firewood.

My partner in activism and horse logging, Boots, arrived and we harnessed up Big John and his partner, Big Jim. The first order of business was to open up the logging trails by hooking the team to my small sled and taking a joy ride. It’s a way to knock the snow down, warm up the horses and get one hell of a beautiful ride through the woods.

But as we climbed one of the hills, Big John started coughing. I thought he just had something stuck in his throat – a hay remnant from breakfast, perhaps. We got to the top of the hill and I noticed his head was getting lower and lower. I stopped the team, peered around the side to get a look and see if he got a line tangled or something. Instead, I saw blood. Big John was bleeding rather profusely from his nose.

Boots quickly unhooked the team from the sled and I started to ground drive them toward home with thoughts of a plan upon our return: call the vet, get him in the barn, get towels to clean him up, etc. We were a half a mile back in the woods. And we only got about 30 feet before I noticed John wasn’t going to make it home. He was leaning on Jim, almost walking sideways, barely able to hold himself up.

I stopped them, sandwiched myself between them, feeling John’s 2000 pounds now pushing me against Jim, and unhooked them. Boots took Jim and set off for the house. I stood in denial with John, talking to him and trying to coax him to walk home with me. This was the first time he had ever stopped when I was saying go. He shook his head, as if to say “no” but also to shake the blood from his nose. But he listened to me for one last time and struggled to walk another ten feet or so. And then he laid down.

He took several last gasps of air with his huge head in my lap. And then his massive and gentle body became still. It was over. Big John died, only minutes after being the willing worker he had been for his entire life. All I could do was wail. And wail.

My vet said the cause of his death was most likely an aneurysm, not that uncommon for an older horse. Working him and keeping him in shape was the best thing I could have been doing for him, he told me.

And John liked to work. He was more of a people horse than a woods horse – the opposite of Jim. He loved to pull people in my big sleigh. He loved parades. And he loved kids.

His biggest vice was not wanting to be caught while he was hanging out in the pasture. It drove his previous owner crazy, and it didn’t make me too happy either while chasing him around and around in the morning when we first got him. But then my daughter offered to help. Presto. Big John would never run from a kid.

Since we live right on the road, people are always stopping to look at the horses. And we love to talk about them and show them off. Oftentimes people will ask — or we’ll offer — to give them a ride.

“Oh yeah,” they’d say, “which one can I ride?”

I’d point to Big John, the biggest of the big horses, who stood over 18 hands – a good six feet high to the top of his back. Yep, a ladder was useful – if not required – to get up on him.

“Very funny,” they’d usually respond.

But it was no joke. Big John was the gentlest of giants. He never did anything to hurt anyone or anything. When kids or scared adults got near him he wouldn’t so much as breathe hard, almost as if he was trying to reassure them that everything was fine. And it always was. He had dozens of people get up on his back, most of them kids, and he’d very slowly walk around and give them a thrill of a lifetime.

In the spring and fall I would often put John’s famous double saddle (yes, a two-seater saddle!) on him and ride him to the elementary school to pick up our daughter, Isabel. The school’s secretary even joked once that she was going to amend the parking lot signage to include a horse sign since the current signs offered a place for “cars” and “busses” only.

Nothing fazed John. He’d ride between the busses, through the parking lot, and around the excited children – even letting the kids surround him and hug his leg. We got there early one day and he even let me ride him around to the back of the school and put his face to my daughter’s classroom window.

“Isabel,” I heard her teacher say, “your dad and your horse are here.”

Big John also did parades. Isabel and her friend rode amongst the fire trucks and other mayhem in the Worcester Fourth of July parade – with John’s hair braided and flowers in his tail and mane. I will never forget the looks on people’s faces when they saw these little girls on such a big horse.

He was also my teacher. Before I had John I only had Jim and a dream of being a “teamster.” John made that dream easy to attain. He stood patiently as we figured out the ins and outs and buckles and straps of hooking up a team. And off we went, high stepping through the fields, into the woods, through town, up to the town green, to the school and, of course, to pull wood, too.

There’s nothing like the bond between the teamster and his horses. Imagine the trust – or, if you’d rather, the leap of faith – required to take a one-ton prey animal, hook him to another one-ton prey animal, hook them to a heavy piece of equipment, and then drive them with a one-inch leather strap in your hand through all kinds of scenarios that are completely and totally contrary to their instinct to flee. It’s remarkable. And powerful. And moving.

While I’m sad beyond words about John’s passing, I’m thankful for the six years we got to work together. He taught me so much about patience, trust, teamwork and a singular focus one needs when working in tandem with such large animals. And I’m relieved that he died quickly in one of the most beautiful areas in our woods.

Getting John buried was no easy task. There’s more than two feet of snow on the ground and, as I said earlier, he died a half of a mile in the woods. We made all kinds of calls and visits to people we knew who had the big equipment necessary to both get to him and dig the hole. All but one couldn’t make it for one reason or another. Having been raised around horses, he knew what we were going through.

If I helped him dig out his trailer and load his excavator, he said, he’d help give John the burial he deserved. And so he did, crawling his way back over the trail and digging the giant hole.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said to me as he prepared to put John in his final resting place, sensing that I didn’t want to be around for that part of it. “I’ll say a prayer for him,” he added while giving me a caring touch to my shoulder and a motion for me to leave.

Later, when we all went to see the grave, we were moved by the makeshift cross he had made with two branches and a shoelace. Isabel and her friends later added to the simple shrine.

It was a long weekend for all of us, including, of course, Big Jim and the other three horses. For much of the day after John died, Jim stood and stared at the trail that leads into the woods and about every ten minutes would let out a loud whinny, calling out for his teammate or some answers. We had none.

Thank you, John, for giving us all so much joy. We will never forget you.

[Rod]

Wow, what a moving story.

[Jim Ostergard]

You are very kind to share your feelings of loss with all of us. I cannot say anything except to let you know my thoughts and prayers are with all of you
peace….Jim O

[Gabe Ayers]

Michael,

Thanks for sharing the story of loosing Big John. There is not much anyone can say to make it easier to deal with. But all of us that have been teamsters for a while have had to deal with it also. So in the interest of sharing I want to include an article written by Chad Vogel, (one of our Biological Woodsmen Mentors) about the loss of one of his and some other good horses. It was printed in our DRAFTWORKS newsletter and probably hasn’t been read by most of the members on this site. I hope you all enjoy it, if there is a chance for enjoyment in this situation. Please accept my condolences sir and carry on…..

Jason

In Memory of Fran, Skidder, and Henry.
By Chad Vogel

The feel of a good team in your hands is wonderful; having the slightest bit of tension in the lines, the horse’s long plodding steps, and to feel 300 board feet dragging behind you. It is pleasing to calmly and quietly say, “whoa,” and having the pair of beasts come to a halt and immediately be in a relaxed position, the lines now slacked, two heads slightly drooping, and each with one hind foot cocked up and resting. Their rapid breathing rocks the log arch back and forth just slightly. Gathering some tension in the reins again, the heads slightly perk up as four ears swivel back to me and I speak, “come up.” Two bodies lean confidently into the collars. The haunches sink down and the feet dig in to the ground, which heaves slightly under the pressure, and the load starts to move. Once more the load is carried by the long plodding steps. Yes, a good team is a wonderful thing. I had one once, with the names of Ridge and Fran.
It was morning when I first got the news. The night before I had spent driving home from northwestern Pennsylvania with Jason Rutledge and Ben Harris. I got home and into bed at about 3:00 a.m. and was awakened at 8:00 a.m. by a confused and startled voice saying, “Chad?… Fran’s dead.”
If you have ever received unexpected news you know that the impact of the startling information takes a little bit to sink in. When I heard what Becky, my girlfriend, just told me I felt absolutely numb. I felt distinctly less than just moments before; when my head was still resting dreamily on my pillow. I felt as if my slate had just been wiped completely clean. It was as if the steady flow of emotion that slips through the human psyche in normal levels was suddenly dammed, and I was standing dumbly on the dry side. I felt absolutely nothing.
A man in a severe drought knows that a hard rain will bring no relief but will simply wash the topsoil away leaving the land more barren than before. So I knew that my temporary emotional drought was bound to come rushing back and then leave me raw and bare. The first cracks started to tremble through the dam when I saw her from a long ways off, lying there motionless in the field. Maybe it is that complete lack of animation that gives away the fact that a being is dead. Maybe it is something more deeply set than that, maybe living things can somehow recognize when a soul has left a body. Whatever it is, death can most definitely be perceived by man and beast alike. I could tell by the sunken heads and pensive looks that the two other horses in the field where giving their former partner, and for one, former mother; that they knew exactly what had happened. I can remember a similar incident where the reaction of Jason’s faithful gelding Wedge was to stand on his tip toes in the far corner of the paddock, trembling with shock and disbelief as he looked on at his fallen brother and work partner.
As I drew closer to my dead horse my own reaction made a rapid change from shock to mourning. The cracks that had been swelling in the emotional dam gave way as I drew close enough to see her slightly open and remarkably dry looking mouth. I was simply swept away with the current. I cried like I had not cried in a long time. I wandered back and forth, first kneeling by her side, stroking here dark chestnut neck and face and then petting and caressing her grieving herd mates. Though she had always been a broad mare, her distended belly, bloated and taught, was unnaturally big; an unmistakable sign of colic.
I spent much of the remaining day that way, wandering about, feeling helpless, bursting into uncontrollable streams of tears from time to time.
But as numbness gives way to grief, so grief gives way to reflection. I remembered Jason’s horse Skidder and what a faithful partner and worker he was. I remember looking on at the one-man funeral procession comprised solely of Jason. He was following his dead horse as it was drug up to the field, past the pine stand, to the horse graveyard to be buried with his predecessors. I remember wondering whether I should join him and if he needed companionship and support, or if he just needed time to be alone with his horse. I wondered just what he was feeling at that time. Now, two years later, I think I understand.
I also recalled remarks Chad Miano had made about his horse Henry. I heard how he had been a beautiful, well-mannered, and hard working stallion. He told me it was a long time before he recovered from the loss of that horse and was then able to build up the good team he has today.
After Jason lost his first horse he called his grandfather who gave him this gruff, yet sound advice, “You’ll bury ‘em all if you keep ‘em long enough.” He said, “Get yourself another horse and go back to work.”
I was lucky that Becky had a good little mare that I could put in to work beside Fran’s old partner. She is working better and better all the time.
This coming weekend I’m going to pick up a new five-year-old gelding. I hope to have him working in no time.
Now, as I continue to reflect, I realize that all is not lost. When you are as young and foolish as I am, you think you know and understand just about everything. Then something like losing a horse comes and completely blows you away, and you come to realize that there is a lot in this world that you have yet to experience and overcome. This was just my first experience of losing a horse. Is an experience that horse-folk have been having since man first started to bridge the gap between the world of horse and the world of men.
Yes, I had a good team once, but we have all had good teams, we have all lost good teams, and we will all have good teams again.

[Jean]

Can’t type through the tears.

[Carl Russell]

Michael, Thank you for sharing the expression of your loss with us. I was moved by your story of the wonder and euphoria of driving horses through fresh fallen snow, and the emptying feeling of the death of your beloved workmate. The opportunity for those raw experiences of life that we expose ourselves to, through our work with animals and natural cycles, is as agonizingly painful as it is exhilaratingly healing.

I too buried a fine horse in midwinter. I would like to share the poem I wrote to work through grief, as homage to Big John.

Rob the Wonder Horse

Now go ahead, be on your way,
I’ll think about you every day.
Your eyes so bright, your ears so keen,
go find that field so lush and green,
and romp and roll, and buck and run,
have yourself a lot of fun.
I hope sometime to pass that way,
and crest that hill to watch you play.

So many paths you helped me find,
both in the woods and in my mind.
We turned the soil, and I learned to grow,
and bring to life the things I’ld sow,
the best of which it really seems,
were hidden deep within my dreams.
My time with you I’ll never trade,
you made a mark that will not fade.

No go ahead, get on your way,
you will be with me everyday.
From ridge to ridge along the brook,
I see you everywhere I look.
Like scratches on a cavern wall,
our secrets hidden in the scrawl,
of skid trails, furrows, and manure,
the tests of time they will endure.

Whatever the job, you had your pace,
and I learned that this was not a race,
but when I asked, you did your best,
you’re done with work, now take a rest.

It’s hard for me, I feel so strong,
the need to bring you on along,
to see things through to the end,
you truly were my greatest friend.

Go on now Robbie, get on your way,
I’ll meet up with you again someday. C.B.R. 2/94

To you Michael, and Chad, and Jason, and all. Carl

[Gooserun Farm]

First I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. After reading your post I realized how much I hate to sell my team. Not saying I won’t or don’t think I should just that it is hard to part with them. It’s amazing the bond you can get to an animal. Again, my sympathies.

[Anonymous]

6′ 2″, 350 lbs, and wiping tears from my keyboard as I type. I am not often speechless, but words fail me at this time. I honestly believe you wrote the greatest tribute anybody could have given Big John. Print a copy. Read it whenever you find yourself missing him. I hope you find peace quickly.

[J-L]

So sorry to hear about that. We all know it’s going to happen some time but it sure doesn’t make it any easier. I hope you can take some solace in the fact that he went out doing what he was meant to do and didn’t have to linger on through lameness or prolonged sickness as so many do.

[Plowboy]

I am sorry for your loss. The only consolation would be that he died with his boots on so to speak. We have culled a couple renegades and had a foal born dead. The hardest thing we have had to do was take an arthritic mare to the sale at 27. She plowed that spring but by August couldn’t pull her half of the side rake during second cutting. We kept her around for several months trying to decide what to do with her and finally decided to send her to the sale. When Dad got home he said never again. She followed him in like a trooper but nickered at him when he turned and left. Some of our other horses are getting near 20 now and I’m sure we will encounter this same problem sooner than we would like to think. We raise them and get them trained the way we like and then suddenly they get old all too fast.
One of my mentors lost his wife in August. He is 84 and told us at Christmas Eve dinner, “As long as I’m as good as I am I’ll keep going like I am but when I get bad to hell with it”. He keeps 12 horses 15 beef cows a small flock of sheep, some goats and two dozen laying hens. He’s still going strong and when the weather warms up we are going to help him start some colts driving. I hope I age as well as he does. He still does the work of a man half his age. I’m sure our faithfull horses feel the same as he does.

[Jeff]

I too, was moved by your tribute to Big John. Thank you for sharing it.

[Iron Rose]

I can sure fell your grief . A few years ago I had to put down a faithfull horse that I had raised from a colt. To help with the grief I wrote a poem in tribute to and exceptional horse.

Good-bye
Old Friend

Today I said good-bye to a friend of thirty years
A better partner and companion could not be found
Greatly missed will he be
One that may never be found again

Many trails did we travel
Many a Bronc did he help me break
Never a better partner could be had
Always counted on could he be, there when the need be

When stock need to be worked
Well to say he did it all, is all that needs to be said
He knew naturaly what to do
Of one mind wee seemed to be

Thia special friend was a horse
Not a fancy show horse was he
No just a good ole working horse
With a heart as big as all outdoors

One Cold and Windy day
To an accident did he fall
His hind leg was swollen and hot
On three legs he tried to go

To the barn and stall did he have to go
Out under God’s blue sky , is were he wanted to be
Longingly he gazed out the door
But with snow and ice surly he would fall

An escape on that night did he try
Outside is were he tried to go
Though it wasn’t ,eant to be
He slipped and fell, he lay there unable to rise

He called to me that morning
Painabd sorrow filled his eyes
The time had come I knew
To free him from the prison of pain

On that cold and windy day
Sitting on that cold barn floor
We said are good-byes
I helped him go to were we all must go

With gun in hand and tear filled eyes
Twice I tried and twice I failed, to send him on
Then I swear I heard God’s voice say
” Send him home so the hevanly range he can roam”

If good horse’s to heaven go I don’t know
But could it me heaven if that is so
So if it’s there he did go
Then the hevenly herd did just grow

[TBigLug]

I’m sorry to hear about your loss. Your tribute was one of the finest that I have read. I hope over time you have found some peace.

[jen judkins]

Thanks for bringing that thread up to the top, tbiglug. I had missed it, having become a member later in the year. What a very moving tribute to the horse-human relationship. A beautiful read, really…

[Author]

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