In memory of Murphy

I have heard it said that one shouldn’t have animals unless prepared to make hard choices; this week brought that unbearable decision. 

Knowing our vet would be on the yard on Wednesday to see a friend’s horse, Mum and I agreed that it would make sense for him to have a look at Murphy.  He sustained a tendon injury in August 2011 so was out of work when I fell ill a month or so later.  A friend of mine had been giving him a little light exercise recently, but apart from that, he’d been off for eighteen months.  I knew that as he wasn’t quite sound after all this time, his chances of ever being so again were pretty slim. 

I was dreading the appointment, a large part of me was hoping that it would be cancelled due to the snow we’d had earlier in the week.  My heart sank on Wednesday morning when Mum phoned me to say that the school was perfectly usable, and that there was no reason that Julian shouldn’t come. 

The outcome was exactly what I’d feared most, that he was lame in both front legs and realistically, nothing could be done.  In the vet’s words, it was time to move on.

The next thirty-six hours were a total blur, and a large number of those since have been spent in tears.  All I see in my mind is his gorgeous head over the stable door, his neck arched, ears forward in a (rare) good mood whilst he nibbles at my jacket, trying to get a toggle, or the edge of a pocket between his teeth.  The image keeps creeping up on me unexpectedly, appearing during a conversation or thought about something entirely different, and taking me unawares.

Rationally, I know what needs to be done, but it has been impossibly difficult.  Is life in pain better than no life at all?  When in similar situations with other animals, at least we could say that he/she has had a long and happy life to that point, which somehow slightly soothes the grief.  The fact that he’s so young is making it much harder to deal with. 

In Murphy’s case too, it seems such a waste of potential.  Even through the difficult times we have had with him, and there have been a few, I’ve always held onto my belief that he would turn into a really nice horse.  From the day I tried him, he showed a maturity beyond his years under saddle, and I was sure we could improve his behaviour on the ground.  He has come so far from the green, scrawny, fidgety stress head that I bought, incessantly box-walking, teeth and hooves flying as it took two of us to anchor him enough to get tack on him.  I think of all the hours spent, particularly by Mum, in getting him to the almost normally behaved, albeit rather grumpy horse he is now; time not wasted, but now lost.  What might have been, and what he might have become.

Through the darkest moments of my illness, he has been there as a goal, a motivator to fight on.  When I did manage to get to the yard, even if I wasn’t well enough to pick up a brush, and no matter how exhausted I was afterwards, a few minutes spent with Murphy never failed to lift my spirits, my equine therapy.  I think about the days when Mum had planned to take me to the yard and I decided I wasn’t well enough to go.  Why didn’t I grab every single second I could have spent with him while I had the chance? 

Not only am I grieving for him, but for that part of my life.  I mourn for the days when I was riding and competing, and oddly for material things: for the lovely horsebox, virtually new Albion jump saddle, beautiful rugs, the jodphurs I bought shortly before I was ill and have never worn, all gathering dust.  Whilst they were already redundant, they were there; ready for when (not if) I would need them again.  Without a horse, that day feels impossibly far away.

For the last ten years, I’ve strived to compete even somewhere close to the level I did as a teenager; nothing remotely impressive on paper, but serious enough that it now feels it was an achievement.  That dream has been shattered so many times, for various reasons, and losing Murphy is another failure to add to that pile.  Should I have known?  Was there anything I could have done?

I really feel for Mum and the others being on the yard tomorrow afternoon and seeing his empty stable.  At least I don’t have to be there until I feel strong enough to deal with it.  I’ve had to change my profile pictures, desktop background, screensaver and hide the photos of him around the house; for the moment, it’s too hard even to see his face. 

It’s safe to say that my little brown and white horse will leave behind a very big hole.  Goodbye Murphy, my gorgeous, gorgeous boy.