Joyce Reynolds-Ward wrote:
> I don't know how many now here remember Catja, from Great Britain (her
> horse was Count Nosferatu, also known as Crumble).
Count Notfaroutoe. After a Terry Pratchett character who was not quite a
vampire, on account of needing a name for a horse who was not quite
black.
I'm not certain how he became 'Crumble', but that's the name he had.
> She had Crumble put down today. He'd been declining in soundness, and
> was getting even worse instead of improving at the beginning of
> summer, turning listless and not his usual self, showing signs of
> being in pain. He'd been pasture sound for the past year or so, but
> that was failing. The decline was getting bad over the past two
> weeks, and he was not showing signs of taking it with grace.
Thanks for posting this, Joyce. I am still in shock and getting teary
(and that won't go away soon). Two months ago I had an elderly, slightly
stiff, but overall sound horse. From there things went very quickly.
Crumble's usual reaction to being in pain had always been hyperactivity
- for many years I was able to tell whether he'd acquired even a small
scratch by the fact that he would resemble a complete fire-spitting
lunatic - but this time round, he just looked resigned.
There were many small signs that things weren't right. Stiffness. The
way he placed his legs. The way he did not even frown at the other
gelding when he came over for a treat and a fuss.
He made it easy for me, there was no doubt that I was making the right
decision, no worrying that this was only a blip and he would get better
(that's what I thought at the beginning of May, and he *did* get better,
and he walked out sound again, and not exactly in a slouching fa****on,
either) but no amount of bute or joint supplements in the world could
have made him right again, only somewhat better. With all the threats on
the horizon - moving to a steeper pasture, autumn mud, winter - it was
pretty obvious that if he was not wholly comfortable now, it would only
take a little catastrophe to make him entirely uncomfortable then. Once
that decision was made, it was best made quickly.
In the end, it was not difficult decision at all. I loved my horse, but
I loved the alert and happy horse, the one that loved running across
wide open spaces, not a horse that looked like him without behaving like
him.
And I am glad that I was in a position to *make* that decision, where
someone else might have tried this and that, and wanted to let him stay
on over the summer, and hoped that he might get better again... watching
*that* would have been indefinitely worse.
I was there. I hung out with him and a friend and his beloved mares in
the morning, and led him out of the field, where the local huntsman did
the deed quick and painless. I will not have to worry that he suffers in
the field, and I do not have to worry that he suffered in his death.
Bye, Mudball. You will be missed.
Catja
for the first time in ten years, .sigless
And thanks for the good wishes and the salute; they are much
appreciated.
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