I live in the country, and I sometimes think there are more horses than people on my road. So I was stunned this morning to drive by one of my fields and see what looked like the corpse of a horse.
It was bitter cold. A freak snow storm yesterday left patches of white everywhere. The temperature barely broke twenty degrees as I drove into New Haven; a brisk wind whipped. I was on my way to the courthouse to pick up a probation report in anticipation of a federal sentencing.
I turned a corner and spied a horse of mine, Vonde, an Icelandic only four years old. He stood proud at the crest of a hill. He will be broken for riding soon. On Sunday I plan to ride his mother in an annual trail ride organized to honor the man who built our house. Near Vonde was a brown unmoving mound. It was not there yesterday.
I did not stop. Sorry to say, I merely noted the oddness and pressed on. An hour later, it was no mere anomaly. The mound hand't moved, but Vonde had. Alone on the hill lay Gambol, a neighbor's horse, who died this morning at 38 years of age. Call him a Methusaleh of a horse.
I talked some with his owner on the phone. She rents the meadow from me in exchange for care of Vonde. Did she need anything?, I asked. She was so calm and composed. "It was a good death," she said. Last night she fed him and he seemed peaceful, and not in pain.
The death of an animal always moves me beyond reason. I do not understand it. By day, I defend a man's killer with stoic and strong heart. But seeing the death of this magnificent animal makes me cry. The law has not yet driven me beyond recognition of the beauty of life, and sorrow over its abrupt end.
