The title line for this post is a quote from Prince William.
Twenty-four hours after Dr. Barb Crabbe and Nikki James of Pacific Crest Sporthorse took a look at one of my mares and told me she was too lame to ride, the horse was doing her best immitation of a bucking bronc out in the small paddock. True, I had worked some powerful topical anti-inflammatory, Dex in DMSO, into her rear tendon sheath region. True, I did put standing wraps on both of Whisper's rear legs and true, I did give her a good dose of oral NSAIDs to help quiet down the swelling. Still, it shouldn't have been enough to make a dead lame horse WOO HOO with such vigor. Therein lies my dilemma with Whisper.
She's a talented horse; a frustrated one, too. In the nine years that I've owned her, Whisper has spent well over half that time recovering from some kind of injury. Truthfully, I believe she's always been this way. In all likelihood, the folks who sold her to me knew it, too. Yet when Whisper is working, she's truly amazing. So, over the years, it's been easy to justify spending a lot of money to try to fix her.
Now, Dr. Crabbe tells me it will take a thousand dollars to diagnose Whisper, money I simply can't pull out of the air. Money that's needed to support and sustain this family and the other viable critters. My knowledgeable and talented vet tells me she's not optimistic, that the results -- any results -- will not be good. So I'm reluctant to send more cash into the black hole of Whisper's care. Clearly, Whisper will never be okay.
If I retire my mare to pasture, she'll continue to be a frustrated, out-of-work horse that bucks herself from one pulled tendon to another. That's not the half of it. When Whisper is injured, doctoring her requires expensive medications, lots of time, and dedication. When Whisper breaks, I'm put in the position of designing and executing a treatment regimen.
Thinking back over the past nine years, mending Whisper has consumed way more time than riding or showing her. Always, I struggle with the quality of life question. Is Whisper dealing with chronic pain? Since most of her injuries require her to be stalled in the barn with a small flat paddock -- where she's separated from the rest of her herd for long periods of time -- is she lonely? How does a long-term chronic condition affect her psyche? Is this kind of life fair to Whisper or me?
Here at the ranch, horses that are sound get worked and horses that are worked get attention. Whisper has, for much of her life with us, been relegated to a "safe" space and given a minimum level of attention.
For now, while I attempt to find clarity -- so I can be honest, genuine, thoughtful and caring in finding the right thing for Whisper and for me -- we'll continue to saddle and walk Whisper. She's only been started back up three weeks yet it's apparent that she's elated to be working. Her attitude is bright and she readily accepts saddling and light arena work. The exercise keeps the swelling in the tendon sheath region down, too. Decommisioning Whisper entirely feels wrong. Defining a careful balance and determining limits seems right.
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