I am a spiritual person. There are times where my hands come together in front of my face toward the sky, and I simply feel united with Source. This happens when I am most deeply sad, it happens outside of my awareness, I have been relying upon it the last few hours.
This is the one and best vehicle of being I have tonight. My tears are flowing, it is all quiet finally.
To recap, Skippy was put down Sunday night. He is a seventeen year old quarter gelding. Fine and dainty, red with a blaze and socks. Technically he was a paint because of a tiny white star between his forelegs. I touched him there many times. This hurts to write. Henry, my Fjord, would not leave his side before and after he was deceased. Henry was laying by Skippy when the relative of the clinic came to take Skippy to a community grave. The vet service had also recommended a rendering service. I did not know what that was, my sister told me. She lost her beloved 30 year old Tennesse Walker mare two years ago due to age. My sister was broken down for days.
I have wanted one moment's peace. Much more than one. My hands are guiding me now, they have been for some hours.
Here begins the usual tale with an ending I have insisted be different. I have communicated that I am truly at the end.
To recap, I woke up to Sunday with my husband afer such a nice night. We slep in, he went to get my kids from their sleep over at their cousins.' They came home, my projects for the day were to take down all the xmas decrations and make a roast for dinner with all the sides. Late afternoon my husband went out to feed.
He called me from the barn: "Skippy is down. He looks weak." I know, I always know physical conditions. I know them through my mind. I am highly aversive to the stuff that goes on inside the body, seeing blood and guts and all that. There is no area of the mind that can lose me, I follow people all the places they need to go. But I always know. I knew Skippy would die Sunday night. He's always been a hard keeper but he was prancing around as usual the day before. I did not opt for an autopsy, so it best guess a tumor or cancer.
Skippy being put down is a horror. What entertwined itself is a banishee. I had my kids this past weekend. When my husband called me I knew. I just knew. My God, I have to get out there. I went to the royal abode, advised princess and pee of the situation, asked them to come up the main level of the house and be available for my boys should they have need. I asked them to continue with dinner prepartions (the one time I have asked them for help of any kind, so should have underlined the urgency of what I needed to attend to). My tears are beginning to flow again, and I haven't gotten to the current day's events. God, help me. Please, help me, God. Please, please.
So I am getting my gear on, horse wear, anxious, I know what is going to happen. As I may have mentioned, I wroted my doctoral dissertation on clinical intuition: the experience of knowing beforehand what is to be known. I hate it, it is a curse.
I just wanted to get out there. I am putting on my boots, princess hobbles up the stairs and will not let me loose from a diatribe about her stupid kneee. God, let is fester. I am trying to gather my gear and mentally prepare myself for what I am going to encounter and she continues to babble about her well done knee.
Skippy was like an old man on a hospital bed dying. I had called the emergency vet when my husband told me of his state, we were all there together. It was awful. For a horse to have diareaha is a symtom of illness. He was laying down and his hindquarters were covered. The suddenness was devasasting.
The emergency vet is out there, I'm out there, Rich is out there, my Skippy is weakly thrashing. The vet and her husband are doing all they can to help, but he is too far gone.
princess, that fucking dipshit ugly cunt hobbles out to the paddock. She, holder of holy expertise and love for my horse, for all horses, proceeds to tell the vet that he needs food, water and an IV. Oh, and wil the IV hurt wherever it is supposed to go in?
I was trying to discern the message the vet was telling me. Then my neighbor came over, who is an exper horsewoman, extremely compassionate. I relayed to her what the vet said and she, having been through it (she cried on my shoulder last summer when her 30+ year old mare was put down because she did not want her to try another winter).
And oh my God. princess had to hobble out there and tell the vet how to do her job. She had to detain me while I was comletely preoccupied and give me a complete medical run down on her stupid mutherfucking knee, which should most properly be bent backwards and shoved up her stupid ass.
God, help me.
Then, she would not get out of the way while I was making the most private and heartbreaking of decisions. Not only that, she butted her stupid hobbled ass into my very vulnerable conference with my trusted neighbor. She wanted to know if I had known her when she had dark underlights in her blond hair that matched my Fjord's mane. Then she told me about how the circumstances under which she had decided to dye all of her hair dark. Then she told me how much more she liked being a blond after wrentching me though her dialouge of how she came to the decision to return to blondeness, and how going shades lighter blond than her own natural blonde had affected her hair. But she felt in sync with Henry, my Fjord.

This was beyond belief. Could this be real? Could this possibly be? This viper would not leave me, trailed me, I just wanted one private moment to say Goodbye to Skippy. It was not to be had. I did my best to kneel and shroud my words and and hands from this eclipsing vulture. I was put into the impossible position of being open and vulnerable with my dying horse and knowing that if I did so this deomon was watching, soaking it up and figuring.
She is that awful. I had an entire night of today, I'll send this for now.