Horse of a Different Color

Horse of a Different Color

Written by: Jennifer Butler

     I've adored horses since I was able to recognize what a horse was. I first fell in love with an old, raggedy horse named Coke in Van Nuys, California, where I grew up. I then proceeded to enter the whole “OMIGOSH MOMMY AND DADDY I WANT A PONY!” phase. That phase never stopped. From age four I began saving every penny I earned or found and added it to the pony fund. Birthdays, I asked for pony money. Christmas, I asked for pony money. I would pet-sit for neighbors and run Kool-Aid stands in front of my childhood home off of Edenberry Lane, waving down passersby hoping to sell a watered down sugar beverage with cherry or pink lemonade flavoring. When I got a sale, I used to think, Wow. I'm awesome. That person is a total sucker for paying fifty cents for a Styrofoam cup of sugar water. In hindsight, I realize, I hadn't fooled any of my customers. They knew that they were paying an outrageous price for a cup of water, sugar, and food coloring. They did it because they wanted to help the young, outgoing, and seemingly desperate girl flailing her arms about on the side of the road as she screamed, “KOOL-AID! FIFTY CENTS OR BEST OFFER!”. It's interesting to take into consideration how each customer's seemingly small decision to stop his/her car and hand me a couple of quarters eventually made such a large impact on my life. By the age of eleven, I had four thousand dollars saved up, and I deemed myself ready to buy a horse. It was a brisk Saturday in November when I received the call.

     “I think I've found the one,” Sharon told me over the phone. 

     “What do you mean, 'the one'?” I asked. My face flushed with increased adrenaline.

     “You'll have to come see,” she responded.

     Never one to ignore my trainer, I listened to Sharon's request. Upon arriving at Falcon Ridge Stables, I walked toward the stall that supposedly held “the one.” When I arrived at the mystery horse, another young female rider stood outside of the stall, peering in. The horse's flanks were facing toward us and we were unable to see his face. He was straggly and malnourished, with patches of hair missing and briars in his tail. He was flea bitten gray, meaning he was primarily white with countless tiny black specks all over his body. He looked as though he had experienced a rough life. The girl was trying to get the animal's attention, to no avail. She made a variety of noises, but the horse would not budge.

     “He's stupid and ugly,” she said as she stomped her foot.

     “He's not stupid or ugly,” I responded, half to her and half to myself. 

     “Well then he’s obviously deaf.”

     “Give him a chance,” I said to her, surprised at the sudden confidence in my voice, “He’s obviously had a hard enough life as it is.”

     “Whatever,” she said as she flung her hair and stormed off. 

     “Hi handsome,” I whispered to the horse after a brief silence.

The horse responded to my voice, shifting his weight and gently nickering. I did a clicking noise with my mouth to get his attention, unsure of his temperament. He turned his head and looked at me, his ears perked forward.  His eyes were wide and honest. I cautiously opened the stall door and stood in the doorway. The horse walked up to me and set his muzzle on my shoulder, as if hugging me. His breaths were slow, steady, and warm. I hugged him back, feeling an immediate connection. I was eleven years old and had met the horse of my dreams.

     I swore I would never get a white or gray horse. This was due to pure laziness because I had no interest in continually having to wash a horse down in order for him to look clean. I wanted a bay (brown) or chestnut (dark orange) horse to match the color of dirt. Again, I was eleven years old, and laziness and spoiled-rottenness were both attributes that greatly ran my life. However, I suppose the saying holds true that, “Love knows no color.” Although he wasn’t a chestnut or bay, I still adored him. With the exception of the 4:00 AM wake-ups to rid him of poop stains before horse shows, I didn’t mind his color one bit.

     He was a quiet and sturdy horse. Nothing fazed him and he always did as he was told, so we made his show name Silent Knight. Up until that point, since he came to us as a mystery horse with no name, I had been calling him Chance, which I got from the movie Homeward Bound. The nickname stuck. It didn’t take long for Chance and me to begin bonding. We did horse shows, trail rides, and lessons. I’d sit in the grass while he grazed for hours. I taught him tricks and was able to get him from the pasture without a lead line or halter. I would holler, “CHANCEY POOOOOOO!” and he’d come running. No other horse did this. 

     We soon found out that Silent Knight wasn’t so silent after all. He was shy at first, but once he become comfortable in his shoes, his personality began to shine through. This consisted of goofy faces, adorable (and successful) forms of begging, and peeing every time we were in the line up for the judges at shows. He’d also get upset any time I was on a cell phone. He’d bite my butt or nudge me or knock the phone out of my hand as if to say, “Hey, Mom. You can do that later.” It soon became apparent that Silent Knight was no longer an appropriate name, since he was more of a loud and goofy joker than anything. We changed his show name to Jump at the Chance, which seemed far more fitting.

     Years later, the job market became rocky and my dad was laid off from his very steadily paying job, so we had to make a change. We discontinued horse showing, which was incredibly expensive, and moved Chance to a less costly barn. I visited him as often as I could, priding myself in his gorgeous tail and the unique whorls (cowlicks) he had on his body. One vet told me the whorls were God’s fingerprints. I’m not much of a religious person, but if there is a God, I wouldn’t doubt that this horse was carefully created by His hands.

     Years progressed and priorities changed. I graduated high school and immediately began working full time. I moved out on my own and demanded an independent life. This lifestyle took a toll on how often I was able to see Chance, which ate away at me for the years I was working between fifty and sixty hours each week. This schedule resulted in me seeing Chance a couple times per month at most. I know Chance missed me. People at the barn would call or text me, telling me that Chance would wait at the fence for me for hours, pawing at the gate, as if to say: “Where’s my mom? She promised she’d come out today.”

     The guilt regarding this part of my life is something I still struggle with. I always figured that I’d have plenty of opportunities to see him when I had enough money or enough time off of work. I figured he’d live to be thirty to thirty-five years old, and that my children would learn to ride on him. I didn’t feel rushed. Regardless, he patiently waited at the gate for me, every day. And, when I was finally able to find time in my “busy schedule” to visit him, he’d come running. I’d cry to him about boys and work and money and all the things he didn’t really care about, but he at least pretended to. He’d walk toward me and rest his nose on my shoulder when I cried, or he’d nip at my butt to get a laugh. He always knew what I needed to feel like everything was going to be okay. We had that close of a connection.

     After my twenty-fifth birthday, I realized that I had enough stability in my life to get involved with Chance again. I paid to have him moved closer to where I lived in Marietta and began seeing him far more frequently. Chance and I were like old best friends. We started right back where we had left off. He still remembered all of his tricks and still came running when I called him from the pasture. The connection never left, despite the few hiatuses I was forced to take from consistently staying in touch. It didn’t matter to him. I was still his and he was still mine.

     A few months after the move, I noticed a large bump protruding from the side of Chance’s face. I figured it was a bug bite or a slight allergic reaction. The barn manager, Carol, and I decided to keep an eye on it. Within a week, the bump had enlarged and I began to worry. Chance had gotten bumps and bruises previously, but something felt different this time. I called the vet out to check on him. On December 21st, 2011, I received the biopsy results. The only news I was given was that the bump was actually a tumor, and it was cancerous. I was referred to a surgeon for further information and details regarding Chance’s situation. I spoke with a surgeon from Auburn University the following day. He informed me that Chance’s cancer was in the sarcoma family, which is a very aggressive form of cancer. The surgeon told me that these tumors are typically not able to be 100% removed by surgery, since they’re so aggressive and since Chance’s tumor was likely infiltrated into his jawbone. We had to get him to Auburn University for further testing to see how far the cancer had spread. 

     I had a nice chat with Chance, explaining the situation to him. This was more to set my nerves at ease than to have any effect on him. I let him know that we were planning on doing glamour shots with him the following day. When I showed up the next day, camera in hand, I was greeted by a very thrilled Chance, covered in red Georgia clay. He looked like a chestnut. We took pictures nonetheless, laughing at the orange stains all over his body.

     Upon getting him to the gorgeous facilities at Auburn University, we got a closer look at the tumor, which was nearly the size of a grapefruit by that point and growing on either side of his teeth. The initial radiographs taken were inconclusive. We were hoping to see a definitive beginning and ending point to the tumor, so we could put him directly into surgery the following day, with a solid plan of action. Because we didn’t see anything definitive on the x-ray, we were presented with one of two possibilities. First, the inconclusive results could have been because the tumor was localized to a few teeth and the gum line. Second, the tumor may have spread entirely throughout the left side of the jawbone. Unfortunately, the surgeons were leaning more toward the latter option. The only way to find out was to get Chance into a CT scan, in order to get a more detailed look at the inside of his head.

     Chance was scheduled for his CT scan first thing the following morning, on December 29th. My boyfriend, Brandon, and I decided to leave Auburn and head home for the night in an effort for a good night’s sleep. We drank and cried and visited the different possible outcomes for Chance. The following morning, I got a phone call from Dr. Waguespack with the news. The cancer had spread throughout the entire left jawbone, from the front tooth to the very back tooth. It was causing Chance pain and was inoperable. After a long, speechless pause, I responded with, “Well... fuck.” Dr. Waguespack agreed.

     Brandon and I packed up a few random items and began back toward Auburn. We made a stop at a quaint little tack shop to pick up what I deemed as necessities for what was to come: shampoo, brushes, and a large bag of treats.

     Upon arriving at Auburn, I gave Chance his last bath. He didn’t seem too fond of the idea, seeing as though he really really wanted to be a chestnut. I explained to him that he needed to look his best for his visit to horsey heaven. Additionally, he had quite a few friends waiting for him. Wulfie, a large chestnut Thoroughbred who was Chance's best friend during our showing years, also passed away long before his time. I knew he'd be especially excited to see Chance. How would Wulfie and the other horses be able to initially recognize him with an orange mane and tail? The nurses at Auburn called the orange in Chance’s hair his “Southern Highlights.”

     Brandon helped during the bathing process, which warmed my heart. He had never been interested in the equestrian aspect of my life, so for him to roll up his pants and help scrub meant the world to me. Chance pooped while I was giving him his bath. I was oddly excited about this, because it allowed me to do my famous poop-scoop for him one last time. This consisted of one quick swoop of the shovel without any manure remnants flying anywhere. It took many years and many swoops to perfect. Following the bath, we fed Chance treats. We fed him a lot of treats. I allowed him to walk around the facility, say hi to other horses, eat patches of clover, and kind of do whatever he damn well pleased. Once we were losing sunlight, and after we had taken a ridiculous amount of pictures, I let Chance’s nurse know that we were ready. Well, we were as ready as we could be. 

     Dr. Yorke and two nurses walked with me, Chance and Brandon to a big grassy area. The sun was setting and it was a perfect temperature outside. They explained how the euthanasia process would work. They asked if I wanted to stay with Chance for the euthanasia. My initial response was a frightened, “No!” Brandon asked for a moment alone with me. The doctor and nurses obliged, and Brandon gently grabbed my arm and led me away from the group. 

     “I can’t apologize enough for not being more involved with this part of your life. I had no idea a person could have such a connection with an animal, and I am so moved by your relationship with Chance,” he said quietly. I looked over at Chance, who was happily chewing on a patch of clover, which was his favorite snack. Unsure of how to respond, I nodded toward Brandon, still looking at Chance.

     “Listen, Baby,” he pleaded, “Do you remember when my high school reunion was coming up and I desperately didn’t want to go?”

     “Yes,” I choked back to him.

     “Do you remember what you told me?”

     “I told you it was a once in a lifetime opportunity,” I said. My voice shook with each word.

     “Exactly. As morbid as this may sound, staying with Chance throughout the euthanasia is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he told me with moisture gathering in his sky blue eyes.

     “I know, but...” I began.

     “It will be hard, Jen. I know it will be difficult. But imagine how hard the rest of your life will be knowing that you could have been with him for his last breaths. I know how you are. I know how you dwell. The decision is yours, but I think you should stay with him. He would do it for you.”

     I was exhausted from all that had occurred within such a short period of time, but I found truth in his words. Overwhelmed, I took Brandon’s advice and decided I should be present during the process. I wanted Chance to know that I would never give up on him and never leave him, not even at his very last breath. Additionally, Brandon was right: Chance would have done it for me.

     Dr. Yorke submitted the first injection of sedation, comparing it to a nice cocktail beverage, saying that it would calm him down. Chance took after his mommy in many ways, one of which was a high tolerance to said “cocktails.” So, after this first shot, he immediately began eating grass. Through tears, I laughed at his drunken munchies. This was something to which I could relate. They gave him a second sedative to help calm him more. He slowed down, but kept eating. Dr. Yorke said, “Dang, he’s got a large food drive!” This was another similarity between me and Chance.

     Soon he relaxed. By this point, he was no longer in pain. I sobbed as I watched this 1200+ pound animal, who I’d always considered to be invincible due to his size and strength and feisty personality, succumb to the drug injected into him. They let me have one last moment with him before Brandon and I had to step back. Brandon captured this moment in a picture that I will cherish forever. Chance and I were touching heads, like we’d done so many times in the past, and I was sobbing. Through his drunken stupor, he perked his ears forward for me, like he did the very first time we met. He recognized that I was there. He felt that last moment between us. I didn’t plan my last words to him, but what I said was: “I love you. Thank you for everything, and say hi to Wulfie for me.” I nodded at the doctor and nurses and stepped back toward Brandon.

     Dr. Yorke then injected Chance with the anesthesia, which would put him into a deep sleep so he couldn’t feel the pain of his heart stopping. Chance wobbled a bit before his front knees buckled. The nurses and doctor helped guide him down. As he fell and landed on his right side, the ground shook beneath my feet. One nurse gently petted his forehead while the doctor and second nurse prepared for the final injection. The doctor looked at me for approval. I felt like I was out of my body, looking down on the saddest story I’d ever seen. I saw a girl and her boyfriend, and a beautiful gray horse lying on the ground. I saw the girl slowly nod her head at a group of three surrounding the horse. At this moment, an injection was given to the animal. The girl sobbed.

     The nurses and doctor checked Chance’s vitals as his heart slowed to a stop. He took a few long, labored breaths, and then stopped breathing. I stared at his eye, craving the depth and honesty it held only seconds prior. It was blank and empty. His tongue hung from his mouth and rested on the clover patch. It would no longer lick the salt from my palm or cause that slurping noise when eating grain. My sight shifted to his back left leg with the squiggly scar. We never did find out where that scar came from. It, too, came to us as a mystery. I stared at it during this moment, cursing it for ever causing my horse pain. Dr. Yorke removed her stethoscope from Chance’s chest and walked toward me. 

     “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you for this decision. You did the right thing for Chance, and he was so lucky to have you.” She hugged me. The nurses followed suit. Looking  back, I am unable to remember what my response was or if I even had one. All I remember is staring at his scar, silently begging it for answers.

     I donated Chance’s body to the education program at Auburn University. Fibrosarcoma is incredibly rare in horses and not something that has been studied nearly enough. Through tears I told Chance that he was sacrificing himself for knowledge and education, and that this knowledge would save a little eleven year old girl’s pony one day. The staff at Auburn was thankful to have met Chance (the nurses all had crushes on him), and they were very grateful for my donation.

     After the initial autopsy and further pathological reports, we had the remaining parts of Chance cremated and brought home to me in a custom made urn. It sits next to an imprint of his hoof and a framed picture of us from our showing years. The urn reads: “My 'Silent Knight'.” The name Silent Knight is a bit more fitting now. 

     To this day, the situation is still too surreal to be defined by accurate words. No language possesses a word with enough strength to define how much my heart aches and yearns for Chance. I feel like, although I could never truly be ready to lose such a precious angel as Chance, I did the right thing. I have found peace in my decision to put him out of his misery. When I sleep tonight, after I cry a few more tears, I will dream of Chance and Wulfie. They’ll be galloping in a large pasture of clover, worry and pain free.

     And Chance will be a chestnut.