Losing a Horse: The Hole in your Heart and Barn

Over the last year I have met and helped so many wonderful clients due to the ultimately heartbreaking event of losing their horse.

I've helped clients clear out their tack room through tears as we sort through what they are ready to let go of, and what they are not.

I've actually talked clients out of selling certain items, certain that they will miss them.

I've reassured clients that it is perfectly fine to not sell tack after a day or two of thinking.

And although I have been as supportive as I possibly could be, I have never really understood.

Until now.

Meet the Horse: Mr. Goldbar Zip

About one month ago, I lost my first horse.

I have since spent every day in pure heartbreak. Not every day is tearful, but every day hurts.

Just like every horse owner, I could tell you story after story. But I will only tell you a special one, this one:

When we first started looking for my first horse, I found Zipper's ad on DreamHorse. He was priced at $4500 and my parents said "too much." But I carried his ad folded in my pocket every day for a month - to school, to horse riding lessons, everywhere I went I took his ad. I laid it out carefully by my bed every night.

I had it memorized.

I would stare at the photos on his ad and memorize every muscle. I was mesmerized by his grey mane, his big strong hip, and his soft eye. When I looked at this ad, I just knew that I needed to see him.

I would leave the ad around the house for my parents to catch a hint. My parents never threw it away. They just gave it back to me, and back in my pocked it went.

Finally, my parents agreed to look at him after I snubbed every other horse and pony we looked at. My mom was very stern with me and she warned me that just because we are looking, does not mean we are buying. I said I understood, but I knew that once she met him she would love him too.

When we pulled up to the house and I saw him tied to the hitching post, I knew he was mine. My mom said "He's HUGE" and my dad was unsure of a younger horse.

I was so nervous I didn't even lope him. But I loved him. We bought him that day.

I took lessons on him every day during my winter break from his previous owner, and now lifetime friend. She was patient with us both, even through all the times I fell off and the moments of my doubt (I'm sure my parent's doubt too).

When we finally brought him home, and he was in the barn....I replaced his ad with a photo of him...which is still by my bed today 20 years later.

His ad promptly went into a page protector and was stored in a binder my mom lovingly put together that held all of his records and important documents.

Since his death, I have re-read that ad several times because it's a rare moment in time where I actually

had no doubt about anything in my life. All I knew for sure was that he was mine, and I was his.

I love telling and sharing this story because it's a connection that I think speaks really true to his life with me and my family. He was and still is a permanent part of our life. Everything I am - everything my family is - is because of Zipper.

Living in Grief's House

For years we struggled to keep him comfortable with his osteoarthritis - ringbone. Over the last year we had a farrier that crippled him and he never quite recovered to be as sound as he previously was, and his ringbone tripled in size in 6 months. With a strong vet and farrier team, his last 6 months of his life were purely about his comfort.

There were a few times when I questioned if I was being selfish and if his time was knocking. Through a few tearful phone calls with my parents, they reassured me that I would "know" and I just knew it wasn't time. I believed he would tell me - even though I lived in agony questioning if I was doing the right thing. But he proved me wrong every time, and he kept showing me he was not done. So I trucked along with him meticulously managing his pain and comfort level.

Ironically, his passing had nothing to do with ringbone and was ultimately a neurological disfunction that prevented him from swallowing. I say "ironically" because if you knew Zipper at all, you would know that he makes you look one way, then dives towards the other. I knew him inside and out, but I could never predict that horse - not even in the end.

Although what Zipper experienced in his final days was truly a rare-circumstance, I don't think I would have ever made the decision to lay him to rest otherwise. Someone, somewhere knew that I needed help in making the honorable decision for my boy, and I find a lot of comfort in believing that.

We pulled his shoes.

My husband cut his tail and part of his mane for me.

And he is buried on our property with a beautiful hand-made cross and a gravestone marker.

Rico and I visit him often.

We miss him so very much.

How my clients find the courage to let go of their horse through their tack, I don't know. At least not yet. Maybe never for me.

I feel so extremely attached to every single thing that was his.

His blankets (that don't fit any other horse in the barn).

His halters.

His saddle pad (that honestly should just be thrown out - it's dirty, worn, and hasn't been used in years).

His feed bucket.

I have been on the comforting and supportive side so many times, but I never understood until my best friend stepped into the role I normally play for others.

His blanket, halter, lead, shoes, and hair were left behind from the day we laid him to rest and I just could absolutely not look at them. I asked her to please "just do something with them."

So she did.

She very neatly, lovingly, and thoughtfully folded his blanket. She buckled his halter, and looped his lead nicely. She place his shoes in a safe place. She took his hair home to wash and braid.

I have thought a lot about the people who are getting me through this: my husband, my family, my best friend, and friends that I have because of Zipper.

And now I know that I need and want to continue to be that person for people who are ready to part ways with their tack.

I have thought a lot about what it means to be there for someone who is trying to survive a hole in their heart and in their barn.

And now I know that the hole will probably always be there, but love, support, and maybe more horses can help soften it. Maybe I can be included in that.

I have thought a lot about what grief is through losing a horse.

And now I know that grieving a horse when your life is about horses completely changes your world. It changes every thing about every day. But maybe...there's a place for me to be in that change if it helps.

I am absolutely horrified at the idea of selling any of his tack.

It puts me into a frenzy thinking about letting someone else touch "his" stuff.

But maybe one day, I'll be like the clients I help.

Maybe one day I'll be like my clients who tell me they want a fresh start.

Maybe one day I'll be like my clients who revel in only the gratitude of sharing their life with their horse.

Maybe one day I'll be like my clients who let go to move forward.

Maybe one day, I'll be like my clients.

For now, I am still living in grief's house.

But when I'm ready, I know my clients will be there for me too.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for letting me be a part of your grieving process when you lose what is most precious to you.

Happy Trails,

Katie, Zipper, Rico, and Nimble

Please enjoy some of my favorite moments captured by JeniJo Photography in the summer of 2020. If you have not had professional photos taken of you/your horse, I cannot recommend capturing the memories of them enough. These photos are simply gold to me.