In Memoriam of Kaweah
Music
When I first saw Music,
he was the only horse left owned by the college equestrian center that was
available for lease. I was a beginner, so I was happy just to have a horse
to ride. The first time I laid eyes on him, he was covered head to hoof in
adobe mud,stuck to his winter coat. You couldn't even tell what color he
was. I had no idea when I led him out of the stall why everyone was looking
at me funny. I later found out why. Nobody would ride him. I think the school
was going to get rid of him - he was just too hyper to be used as a school
horse. The trainer was against me riding him - she thought he would kill
me. I had to lunge him for almost an hour with a stud chain before I could
ride him, but ride him I did. It took a long time and a lot of love (and
brushing!) to find out what a diamond lay underneath all that mud.
At the time, I needed a
friend in the worst way. I did not have a good home life, nor many friends,
but riding was one thing I felt a connection to. Little did I know that Music
needed me too. I had some really tough times through my teens and
twenties, and I honestly believe that if I hadn't had Music to lean on, I
may have committed suicide. When I had nothing else but pain in my life,
he was there for me. He saved my life. It took some time for us
both to allow ourselves to trust each other, but once we did, you could not
separate us. He would do anything for me, and me for him. Gradually people
became astonished in the change in him. What once was a wild horse nobody
would ride, became a loving and successful competitor. We learned to
jump together. He never let me forget if I didn't get him to the right spot
- he'd stop and dump me on the ground. Then he'd stand there, never running
off, but looking at me like "Well, that spot sucked Mom!" A hard lesson,
but one that stuck.
I spent all my time with
him. All day on the weekends. I'd pack a lunch and we'd take off into the
hills above Thousand Oaks. We'd stop along the way and I'd share my lunch
with him. That's when I learned he loved Nature Valley Oats N Honey granola
bars. He always stole mine, so I took to bringing him his own pack. The day
he died, it was the last treat I gave him. I even took a job at the stable,
cleaning and feeding, so I could spend more time with him.
We grew together and took on the shows. It took a whole season to win
my first ribbon - I got 2 fifth places in an ETI show. I thought I just won
an Olympic gold. Every time we went to a show with all those big
thoroughbreds around, the rich girls always stuck their noses up at my little
quarter horse. Until they saw him jump. He had the tightest knees I have
seen to this day. And he loved it - that got him into a little trouble -
he'd frequently let out a squeal and a buck after the first fence. Not good
for the ribbons, but I knew he was telling me he was having a
blast.
When he was 13, he suddenly
started refusing jumps. After some vet visits, including one to the OC to
an equine eye doctor, he was diagnosed with degenerative retinitis. His show
career was over. In fact I really couldn't ride him - it wasn't safe for
either of us, so he became a companion, and that he stayed for the next 21
years. People asked me, "Isn't that kind of an expensive pet?" But I never
even considered not keeping him. He had done so much for me, I owed him.
Even though I couldn't ride him, he gave so much. He was with me through
2 marriages and 2 kids, cancer, 9 surgeries, you name it. I have pictures
of me in my wedding gown with him next to me. Every major milestone in my
life, Music was with me.
Music was blessed with amazing
health. He was never lame, never sick, never injured. Even on the day he
died, at almost 35, his vet said his vital signs were that of a much younger
horse. His heart was as strong as ever. But his neurological systems started
to fail him. He had an episode last summer - we still don't know if it was
a back injury or a stroke, and he never fully recovered. I told myself I
would do all I could that was minimally invasive to keep him comfortable
and have some quality of life. Steroids helped him bounce back and he was
even back to bucking around on a lunge line. But when winter hit this year
(which is bad here in the High Desert), he just couldn't do it anymore. The
meds stopped helping him. His back legs were dragging. His vision was almost
gone, and his dementia got worse. We had a rainstorm and he was so scared.
He just couldn't process what was happening. When I saw him the next day,
I knew. The spark in his eyes, the kindness and happiness that were his
trademark, were dimmed. His eyes told me he was done. The vet confirmed for
me he was suffering. After making the arrangements, I chose a bright sunny
day, took him out to his favorite nibble-the-grass spot, and held his head
and whispered to him as he was gently put down. He did not struggle, he did
not fight. He was ready.
Me, on the other hand, not
so much. Although I wept and sobbed and shook as the realization hit me that
my best friend was gone, a part of my heart went cold. I think it was my
way of protecting myself. As I put his ornament on the Christmas tree, I
broke down. At the grocery store, in front of the big bags of carrots, I
broke down. I know I will continue to have the episodes, but I know the part
of my heart that is now cold, will warm again as the memories of this amazing
spirit return. His body may have been small, but there has never, ever been
a bigger heart, a kinder soul. There could never be a human being as pure
and unconditionally loving and accepting as he was. I light a candle for
him every day and pray for a sign that he is okay. I know in my heart that
he is galloping around up in heaven, waiting for me. I know he will be waiting
for me when I get there. And I better bring those granola bars.
I will love you forever,
my best friend. God sure knows how to pick his angels.
Music 
