Almost 6 weeks without my buddy. I’ve come to accept it – everyone has to go sometime, and as much as I fought, and he fought, it was his time. This doesn’t make it suck any less. I miss him; physically miss him. My chest hurts when I realize this is never going to go away. The rest of my (hopefully long) life will be spent without him.
I went to the barn for the first time since July 8. Tears streamed down my face when I saw his stall, smelled the cooler that shielded his body after he died, and rode a horse that wasn’t yellow. My yellow.
It felt good to ride. Almost too good. I feel guilty for enjoying it as much as I did. Like I was cheating on the only one who is supposed to make me happy. Tazzy complemented me well. We made each other look good. This becomes clear when I ride other horses, and have to work much harder to look half decent.
The thing that scares me most, is that one day, I may forget him. I’m in my 20’s…Will I remember him when I’m old and grey? Will my future children hear stories of the time he made an Autistic child belly laugh by nuzzling his blonde hair? Or the time we accidentally trespassed into a shooting range and he made the executive decision to gallop the hell out of there? And when he ate my turkey sandwich and I wrestled to get it back, reminding him that he is supposed to be an herbivore.
I chose to get a permanent reminder inked onto my body. I chose a horse with no legs, because in the end, his failed him. So now my leg became his – it’s the least I can do for someone who carried me safely for so many years.