In Loving Memory of Robin, My Valentine
He was my Skin Horse, who
made me Real. Like so many, it seems, my childhood was fraught with poverty
and abuse. As that child long ago, there hung on my wall a painting of a
big red horse with a white mask as I called it then. He had strong but gentle
brown eyes. Into those eyes I would go on the nights when evil visited me.
He let me stay with him, and comforted me, until the danger
passed.
I grew to be an angry, even
rage-filled, young woman. It seems I was always running, seeking I didn't
know what. And end to the pain, though I could not have put that name to
it had I tried then.
I remembered that painting
deep in the recesses of my mind. One day many hundreds of miles later, the
memory began to call to me. Upon a chance I visited a local riding stable
or two. One day, I came to a beat-up old barn at the end of a very long dirt
road, so long I had thought to turn around, as nothing could possibly be
back there.
As I rounded a last curve,
there he stood, come to life, in all his magnificent glory. Deep sorrel,
golden-maned, white blaze. He turned his head to look to this new person,
and there they were - the strong but gentle brown eyes. I became
his that day, as I had always been.
There began a romance that
lasted 15 years. Humbly I sat upon his broad back, following behind the 7
and 8-year old girls whose bravery knew no limits. Being much older, never
having been on a horse before, and being not Real, my own fear was boundless.
Robin took gentle care of me, teaching me, letting me know he would never
let me down, as every one else had.
Robin taught me the lessons
of riding: balance, soft hands, gentle legs, control. But he taught me so
much more, the life lessons I had never been gifted with: trust, cooperation,
determination, laughter, courage, and finally, peace. On days that I had
no lesson, I would visit, pockets full of carrots, and play find-the-carrot
with my red boy. When he could not win, he would playfully take my hat and
toss it into the dirt. He seemed to laugh with me as we ran about the trees
together. At times he would lose patience with me, when my balance or hands
weren't just so, and he would toss me off. But, oh, so gently, he would kneel
on all fours and just shift his weight, sliding me off his side, looking
over his shoulder to laugh at me in the dirt, scowling at him.
Some years later, when the
dream of my own small farm came true, I begged to be sold Robin, but of course
they would not part with this gentle teacher. Destiny would not be denied.
A few short years later, a leg injury made Robin a liability to the stable.
Unable to earn his keep, he would be put down.
My riding instructor knew
of our great bond, and wondered if I might be willing to give Robin a place
to spend out his years. He was only 19, with many good years, if only someone
were willing to give him the medical care he needed. Was I willing? I could
not believe the gift I was being given.
And so, on Valentine's Day
of 2001, Robin came home to Back Pocket Farm, home to me, never to be separated
again. I spent joyful hours with him in the barn, brushing his shining red
coat, braiding his long golden mane. He nuzzled and nickered and taught me
all over again about love and trust, things I never thought I would truly
have in my life. Every day was a wonder and I marveled at his
gifts.
As the years passed, Robin
began to face a series of medical problems: melanomas, chronic lameness,
odd infections. Once he coliced but he came back to me. In spring of 2006,
he was diagnosed with Cushings disease and insulin resistance. A few short
weeks later, our beloved Luke, our 33-year old Tennessee Walking horse, went
to the Rainbow Bridge. Later that same week, Robin contracted a serious nasal
infection, one that might require surgery, which he was not a good candidate
for.
Together we came
through every illness, every condition. After several months of treatment,
the infection was gone. He had a new farrier and a wonderful consulting farrier
who brought his laminitis under control. He was sound, barefoot, and feeling
fine. He endured so many treatments, injections 3-5 times a day, foot soakings,
trimming his coat when he could not shed, hosings every few hours when he
could not sweat. He stood quietly for everything. He knew we were trying
to help. His trust in me was humbling.
On December 22, as we prepared
for Christmas, I came home from work, and eventually made my way to the barn
to feed him. He was down. He had been down before, but I knew in my heart
something was different this time. Over the next day, the vet came out every
3 hours. There followed more treatments, more experiments. With each visit,
his condition had worsened. Never - never - one to show pain, always stoic,
Robin did not roll and kick like many do with colic. He responded to treatments,
so it seemed, for he regained his footing and followed me around the stall.
He needed IV fluids, and a nose tube, and the vet sought to tie him so he
wouldn't pull them out. Oh, no, I told her, Robin doesn't tie. He never ties.
And so he stood quietly, gazing out his window into the pasture where he
first knew freedom, with tubes and wires attached to him. He didn't pull
them out. Of course he didn't.
Finally they suspected the
impaction was very high up, in a place only reachable by surgery. His immune
system and his general condition were compromised because of all his other
health issues, that had been under control for so long. I could not put him
through a trailer ride to a place to face a procedure that he surely would
never come home from.
And so, with his condition
worsening, his belly distending more and more, I had a decision to make.
Still stoic, he would not tell me of the great pain, but I knew he felt it.
Knew it would get worse. I owed my dear friend, who gave me life, so much
more than that kind of ending.
What seemed like only a few
hours since it had began, we led Robin to the trees near the fence, next
to his old friend Luke. He nuzzled me like he always did, leaving his sandy
wet kisses on my cheek. I kneeled before him, we gazed into each other's
eyes for the final time. I whispered to him of my profound gratitude, how
he saved my life, how he gave me life, and made me Real. He said, you did
the same for me, my girl.
I don't know what life will
be without Robin, My Valentine. Forever changed, without doubt, as it was
from the day he came into it. I try to keep the "never against" from my thoughts,
but it is hard. I will never again bury my face in his silken mane. Never
again feel his kisses. Never again hear his call to me. Never again, in this
life. But perhaps one day.
They may say he was just
a horse. But I am forever in his debt. My heart knows he was my Skin Horse,
who made me Real.
Tammy
Charleston, SC
Robin
April 1, 1982 - December 23, 2006
Luke
1973 - April 4, 2006
Robin 
