One Red Ribbon

by Sandy Naas

I chose the ribbon as carefully as I could—it was, red, silky and would perfectly match her black mane and tail. As I made the cut, I cried, wondering why I hadn't done this for her more often. Molly deserved to wear ribbons every day.

I walked through the rain back to the barn with the ribbon in one hand and my own comb in the other. Earlier, my daughter and I had walked, brushed and fed Molly, then left her tied in the barn so she would stay dry. I unhooked her lead. She dropped her head, but didn't move. I began to run the comb through her mane and again tears fell. She appeared to sense the aching in my heart and gave me her head, blew softly on my hand, urging me to continue. I gently combed her mane and braided a few strands near her poll. That's where I would place the ribbon. I slowly tied the red strand around the braid and finished it in a not so perfect bow.

She picked her head up immediately as if to say "I am really something now!" As I watched her face, I thought that perhaps I hadn't let her know often enough what she meant to me; but this day I can't change anything about her past years with us. I can only try to show her in a few short hours everything she has meant to us and hope that she'll understand.

I continue to look at her face, stopping to peer deep into her eyes, chocolate brown and sunken with age, and wonder about her life. She came to us with no written history, only the lines and scars carved into her body and visible in her movement. I didn't care. She came along when I needed her, and she was perfect. She must have been asked to try everything at one point or another, for nothing surprised her and all was done willingly. I wonder if she chased cows on a real ranch or in an arena. Did she hit her shoulders on many barrels or run over any poles when she raced? Did her legs hurt from jumping and not quite making the height? Were her riders kind or did they expect too much? I think about her days here. Her job was to teach my daughter to ride; she did it so well. I wonder, though, if she was happy here.

I'm brought back by a faint nicker and her soft muzzle searching my hand for her favorite apple treat. I pull one from my pocket and relish the glimmer it brings to her eyes. I wet it and give it to her to enjoy. Her teeth are gone, and with nothing but gums to chew her food, she is slowly starving. Her mind is ready, but her body is failing. That reality tears at my heart. I know Molly would crawl to me with her last breath if I asked her. Instead, I chose to save her the pain of further aging. I wouldn't have to do this had I listened to her earlier. A winter ago, I frantically searched my pasture at 5:30 in the morning because she didn't come in to eat. It was dark, snowy and bitterly cold from a northeaster blowing in from Lake Superior. I called and searched for twenty minutes before finally finding her standing as far from the barn as she could get. She didn't respond to me calling her name, so I ran to her and threw my arms around her neck. I was in tears, sobbing as I didn't expect to find her alive. She looked at me with tired eyes. I didn't get it then, but I think she would have preferred to stay right where she was. But I wasn't ready. I urged her forward to the barn and blanketed and stalled her. I fed her warm mash and spent a few hours just being with her. I think now of all that she sacrificed for me that day and wonder how I became so selfish.

The vet is over an hour late. My nerves are raw. I get back to the task of finishing Molly's mane and move with a soft brush to her legs. Slowly I get every speck of mud from them. It would have to rain today. I was hoping she could enjoy one last day of sunshine warming her joints and face. I suppose the rain makes it easier though—knowing that she won't be facing any more bone chilling cold.

The freshly dug grave is ready. This morning, the Town of Barksdale had brought the backhoe. This is one service we get for our tax money. I walk up to the house to give the vet another call. My heart hurts, and I wonder if I'll lose my nerve and not be able to give him permission to give the shots. My husband, of practical Minnesota farmstock, is here to see the job is done if I can't. As I make the phone call, the vet drives into our farm. The labs frantically announced his arrival. I wished they would shut-up. I walked out into the rain once again to meet him. I can tell he doesn't want to be here either. He told me once that his first few years as a vet, he couldn't euthanize a horses. There's something special about horses and it was too hard. That was 18 years ago. He goes into the barn and strokes Molly a bit, looking her over. He assures me that I'm doing the right thing (whether I am or not). He's good that way, supporting your decision no matter what; and maybe giving resolve to his own role here today.

I walk Molly out into the field and say my final goodbyes. My husband does the same. I give the nod to go ahead. The vet speaks so softly to Molly, putting her at ease and assuring her things will be fine. I hold the rope as he explains what will happen and what he needs me to do. As he injects the first shot, Molly goes down to the ground. I hold her head in my lap, slowly stroking her, getting lost in her eyes and assuring her it is okay to go. I tell her I have a son waiting for her and she needs to teach him to ride. The vet pushes in the second shot; Molly is gone.

I hold her for a moment, crying softly into her face and stroking her muzzle, the single red ribbon tied prominently in her mane now covered in mud.

Copyright © Sandra Naas 2006