Dan died. He was my gelding. " My horse-boy." He was about 30. He did not suffer, he just got old. Yesterday he told us it was time. His once powerful body had become that of a little old man-horse.
He refused to get up for Ron, who wanted to bring him down to the paddock and spoil him until he was gone. So I went out. His gentle eyes said, "momma, it's time." I said, "I know old man get up." and I tugged on his halter. "momma, I can't" his look said. And I said, "Hoka he! Mita kola!" his ears pricked up, his eyes brightened. I was speaking his native language, and it seemed to bring joy to his heart. I tugged his halter again, "Hoka he!" he surged to his feet. "T'shunka witka" I murmured, and I swear I saw him smile. He liked being called "Crazy Horse." "T'shunka washte" I crooned as we shambled unsteadily to the paddock. I continued crooning Lakota to him, my big old wild mustang. I stroked his fuzzy ears and talked about our wild rides and how he would once again run across the field in the land of his ancestors, his great big hooves pounding the ground like thunder. He settled down in his favorite wallow, like an old man settles in his favorite chair. I gave him grain, and hay and water within easy reach. I soothed and stroked his face and neck until he seemed to want to sleep. Off and on, he slept the rest of the day. He got up and down several times, things were going in and out. There were no issues. He was just old, it was time to go. We spent several more visits together. He savored an apple core. We said goodbye. This morning, he was gone. I shall miss him.
Tok'sha, mita kola washte, (Until Later, my great friend)