Mourning Sonny

It's a sad day on The Compound. So many bad and strange things have happened in the past week. Mercury cannot get out of retrograde fast enough.

Sonny, my late grandfather's horse, had to be put down today. He is a very old horse, even by horse standards -- well over 30 years old. My mother estimates him to be about 35. He had broken his leg, somehow, during the night in his stable. It's especially tough for my family to make the decision, because in many ways, he is one of the last living ties to my grandfather, who died suddenly 15 years ago.

Sonny was different things to all of us. To me, he was the horse I could make laugh. He had a soft spot on the tip of his nose that only I could find. If I rubbed it the right way with my index finger, his upper lip would curl up and tremble, exposing his teeth. There were even times I'd walk into the barn, say his name and he'd lift that lip at just the sound of my voice.

Sonny never knew he was a horse. He acted, in many ways, like a dog. If you were out in the pasture, he'd tag along at your heels, maybe give a little nip on your but or shoulder if he wanted some attention, or simply head but you in the back. If you were in the pasture, he was in your shadow.

And sometimes you didn't even know he was there. My father was mending the fence one day, getting ready to drive a large spike into a post. He swung his hammer back to gather, ready to strike, unaware that Sonny had deemed himself the unofficial construction site supervisor, and conked that damn horse right between the eyes. It was very cartoon like -- there were practically stars drawn around his head, and he staggered back, shaking his head and then finding a spot on my dad's back to rub his sore noggin.

I went to see him one last time today, before the veterinarian came. This past winter has been hard on him. He's lost so much weight; it's certainly not from a lack of eating. Even though he was clearly in pain, unable to put weight on his hind leg, he was still eating.

But his eyes were different. For the first time ever, he looked tired. And he knew, as well as we did, that it was time to go. If you know an animal well, their eyes speak the words that are never said. And his eyes said it all.

Animals and humans have a bond that is difficult to explain, and hard to understand, if you are not an animal person. You can take an evolutionary approach, thinking that we are the superior species, and it is our job to care for them. To a great extent that is true.

But I have learned differently with all the animals that are in, and have passed through, my life. For as many ways as I have cared for and loved my animals -- the goats, rabbits, horses, mini horses, sheep, mules, donkeys, dogs, cats, and even two raccoons-- they have each given me more on a level that I can't even describe than I know I have been able to give them. Simply put, the affection that a well cared for animal gives a human is beyond human understanding; I don't think one human being can love another human being the way an animal does its human. It goes beyond companionship, and even basic understanding.

So tonight, when the vet is gone, and Sonny is put to rest, I'll raise a glass to the horse, who thought he was a dog, and could always make me laugh.