From The Marsh Hen

1 October

Last month I lost an old friend.  He was a thoroughbred/Hannoverian cross born in May of 1991, a beautiful dark blood bay with no white markings.  He stood large-boned, strong and tall at sixteen hands two inches.  He was the pasture manager here at the farm, in charge of it all, and he was also my confidant.  Every secret I told him he kept close to his chest, sharing with no one.  He usually rested his chin on my shoulder while we conversed.  He suffered mightily from flies and bug bites – his complexion seemed to invite them.  On a very warm Sunday shortly before he died I gave him a long bath, a process invariably pleasing to him.  He lapped water from the hose and stood in contentment while the grooming went forward.  Little did I know it would be the last time.  We do not know why he became so ill so suddenly, could not find his legs on a sunny Monday morning, that terrible day. The other two stood at the fence and called to him as he was hauled up to his grave on the hill above the pasture and for a good hour thereafter.  They still look for him and wonder where he has gone.  I look for him too and can often see him there, his large form just visible in the morning fog, steady and comforting, keeping all under control, just as always.