Catharsis

I could tell where my tears hit the dirt of the corral by their tiny indentations. The intermittent snowflakes vanished and dissipated on the ground. I fed him his last carrot moments before and he relished the treat. Sheridan had always had a solid and consistently friendly manner. I hate putting a good friend down. I am even more loathe to see one suffer.

Sheridan was a sorrel quarter horse, about sixteen hands and twenty eight years old. He always came to a gentle click of the tongue and was a sucker for an apple, carrot or sugar cube. A patient and gentle soul I had trusted him with my children, Rhett and Jordan. They had learned to ride on his back regardless of his size. He had been sure footed and steady.

His travels had been many with various people astride. He had followed Tramp and I through mountains, warm summer suns and the frigid blowing winds of elk seasons past. He had carefully carried my father, with his usual care, on his final horseback hunting trip. Dad, even though still healthy, decided to put his rifle away at the age of eighty.

I had always enjoyed looking out the windows of the Montana ranch house to see him saunter about the large pasture below. Typically he was never without a mouthful of tasty bluebunch wheatgrass.

Today he came as usual, willingly and as eagerly as he could muster. The limp on his right fore more pronounced than usual, unsteady from the neurological disease he had battled for the last seven years. The vet, a good man, stood silent and uncomfortable, off to one side. I dug the last carrot out of the pocket of my Carhartt. The last thing he felt was my hand stroking the soft length of his neck. His final sight was of my teary face and his beloved mountain home beyond. The light painlessly left his big brown eyes. It is good to know that he carried our bond beyond this life and into the next.

 Photo by Reid Rosenthal