Thor

I circled the parking lot nervously in the late afternoon sun, Thor keeping pace beside me. I watched him for signs that his pain was lessening. He was in the full grip of colic and I was anxious for the Banamine to take affect. One trip around the lot, then two and three; his belly was drawn up tight and his eye was pinched. There was no relief. The minutes ticked away taking my last shreds of hope with them.


Thor was a twenty-nine year old Quarter Horse/Arabian cross and he had been my friend for many years. He was liver chestnut and his face sported a narrow stripe that ran crooked off his left nostril. His mane and tail were like fire when the embers glowed orange and he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

For me, it had been love at first sight. Thor was a lesson horse at the stables I volunteered and took lessons at. He had captivated me from the word go. God had perfected the horse in His creation of Thor. The summer I met him was one of my happiest. I pretended he was mine, bought special brushes for him, and made tasty treats for him. He taught me how to ride. We swam together, galloped across the open fields, and shared McDonalds’ milkshakes. There was no better way to spend time than in Thor’s company.

He was a most reserved equine, always seeming to be a little annoyed with everything. But with great patience and gentleness he helped me master my riding skills. I learned to be a dare devil on his back. No saddle, no bridle – no matter. Wind streaming in my hair, eyes watering, hooves thundering, we galloped the summer away. Thor was my confident, my companion, and most trusted friend.

He mercifully indulged all my childish antics, whether it was a cartwheel off his back or sitting backwards on him while he trotted. He may have muttered under his breath about me but was careful of each step he took and was tolerant to a fault. I was in love. While other girls scribbled the names of boys on their notebooks, I affectionately penned his name on mine. The grumpy liver chestnut horse had captured my heart.

I pined for him day after day. At night I would lay awake fantasizing of ways to make him mine forever. He was not for sale and, even if he was, it would have been a moot point as my parents were not in the market for a horse. I dreamed I could sneak him off in the dark of night and hide him in the woods. I would fashion a make-shift paddock out of downed tree limbs and visit him after school. I was desperate for a way to bring Thor into the fold of my family but no way ever materialized.

Time passed and I got older; the silliness of my early scheme washed it away but the underlying desire never faded. I eventually became a riding instructor at the farm where he lived and was able to keep a close eye on him. But, he was never mine.

Eventually time and circumstance took me away from my first love. I missed him. I had regular updates from friends; Thor was getting older, he couldn’t do as much, but was still a large part of the lesson program. I fretted that the day he was no longer useful, I would not be able to pull enough resources together to buy him and I worried what his future may hold.

More years went by and nothing in my power could bring the horse to my home. It seemed a lost cause.

Then, early in 2005, a remarkable thing happened. Thor went for sale and all the pieces to acquire him fell into place almost as if, all those years ago, God had set into motion the plan for Thor’s retirement. My husband’s first reaction, when I told him I wanted to buy the old horse, was , “Why are you buying a horse you can’t ride?”

My answer, without hesitation, was, “Because I love him.” And that was what it boiled down to. I loved him. He had looked after me in my reckless youth, taking good care of me and I would look after him in his old age.

The wheels turned and a plan too perfect to be credited to me unfolded and Thor came to live with me. The realization of dream I’d had for fifteen years.

He was skinnier than I’d ever seen him and he was weak after his long trip from Virginia to Tennessee. He stumbled coming off the trailer and almost fell. I felt tears gathering but fought them off. Thor was 26 years old; I would fatten him up and give him the easiest, most comfortable years I could. We were estranged friends but friends just the same. He had carried me to my first blue ribbon, I had laughed with him, cried with him, and lounged away sunny afternoons with him. He was brilliant, beautiful, and, for a little while, he was mine.

The next three years were happy ones. Thor won fans wherever we lived. He was old and crotchety, like a grumpy old man yelling at kids from his porch but he would still bow for a carrot. He was petted and fawned over by little girls. He got a stall with a window and his very own blankets. I created a diet just for him and he became a connoisseur of alfalfa. He wandered around the barn like a well trained dog, coming when you called him and never venturing out the front gate whether it was open or not. Having him my life was everything I had hoped it would be. He was a bright spot in a dark day and seeing him always brought a smile to my face. I tried not too look too far into the future, knowing Thor’s time was short but, one thing is certain in life, it always comes to an end.

In all the years that spanned between us, all the hopes and dreams I had shared with him, I hadn’t ever imagined that I would be the one to decide his final day. In the empty parking lot of the vet clinic that sad afternoon, my stomach dropped as I realized that that was exactly what was going to happen. The injection he’d received should have dented his pain somewhat. His countenance should have picked up, the tight line in his belly should have relaxed, but none of those things had occurred. In my heart I knew this colic was very serious and I was facing a choice I didn’t want to make.

The vet was very kind. He knew the truth was staring me hard in the face when he walked me through the choices. I could take Thor to the veterinary school which was more than an hour away and try more invasive procedures, knowing that, at his age, he would probably not survive surgery. Should I put him through extensive medical procedures? Was that a choice he would make for himself? At first I was ready to throw out all the stops, whatever they could do I was willing to try. But, Thor was two weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday. He wasn’t young. What if I made him suffer a few more days and it was all for naught?

I had always thought of myself as his benevolent benefactor, his princess in shining armor come to rescue him. But, in fact, he was my rescuer, my benefactor. I was the damsel in distress and his calm presence, his constant companionship, set me on a sound path in life. He gave me early confidence and later brought me back to the world of horses. He was always what I needed most at the time; somehow he was always just right for me. This one time, I had to be right for him. But, the thought of never hugging his furry neck or hearing his deep nicker again was a spear through my heart.

Some years, more than others, are plagued with sadness. In 2008, death came for some of my closest furry friends. And in March of that year, I watched as it stalked my lovely horse.

I took him home, hoping against hope that a miracle would fall on our little farm. I spent the night giving Thor Banamine injections every three hours but it never seemed to touch his pain. Early the next day I knew I had to let him go. The vet met us at the clinic that cold, bleak Saturday morning. He followed me into the trailer while I hugged Thor for the last time. The horse was calm and quiet; his big eyes were beautiful and trusting.

I stroked Thor’s velvet nose as Dr. Whitehair slid the needle home in his jugular. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as the first syringe was emptied. Blood spattered on the floor while the vet quickly switched syringes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said over and over hoping my horse found some comfort in my presence.

The drugs did their job swiftly and Thor’s knees buckled. We guided his body gently to the floor and his life ebbed away in seconds.

I kneeled on the floor beside him long after his great heart had stopped beating. I caressed his beautiful face and closed his eyes.

The ride home was very quiet and very sad. My friend was gone.

How do I put into words what Thor was to me? How do I sum up the place in my heart that he filled and then left empty? He was magic to me, beautiful, kind, and noble. He took with him the last of my childhood, the last of my impossible dreams.

The Night

Darkness, hard and heavy, fell fast, chasing the last of the sun’s rays away, bringing with it a deep and consuming silence. There were no small noises, no crickets, no frogs, no common night humming to mask the sounds that would come, the sounds that hunted her.

Damp night air pressed in close, choking the breath in her throat. She was not sure how much more she could stand; the night, the quiet, the loneliness and, more importantly, the fear. Fear had become her constant companion. The unrelenting stress wore her down, frayed her nerves. If she could not escape the utter desolation and near paralyzing fear, she would go insane. Even now, she felt madness lurking in the recesses of her mind, its icy fingers peeling back the curtain of her sanity, waiting.

She walked slowly through the woods, a slight but constant tremor running through her. Questions ran in a continuous loop through her thoughts. Where were they? She was alone, had been for days, maybe even weeks. She could not remember anything about before. Had she always been alone? She was almost certain she had not. What had happened to all the other people? She shook her head in frustration, the answer to that dark question was locked away somewhere deep, somewhere she could not find. All she really could remember was the night, the awful night, and the fear that lived in it; fear of what she did now know, fear of what she could not see, and fear of what followed behind her.

She was being stalked in the dark by something she could not see. This thing, when it came, shadowed her every movement. She never knew when it would come or how long it would stay but it came frequently, the whisper of dry underbrush announcing its approach. She was always too terrified to turn and face it. It never touched her, never faced her, and never left her alone.

She rarely slept, the dark seemed to last forever and she was so afraid of being caught asleep. Her tortured mind kept a vigil of fear, seeming to almost eat her alive from the inside out. Every moment, every second was spent searching for sounds of the creature. What was it that tormented her? And, more importantly, how much more could she bear?

Hysterical laughing fits were becoming a common occurrence. She knew it was a bad sign but felt powerless, her mind seeming to fracture under the strain. There was no sense in her life; this thing, this experience could not be. Madness lurked around every corner. Not much time left. Once she descended into the slippery bowels of her brain, there was no coming back.

The creature came again on this hot, still night; the plodding steps heavy and loud. Her mind screamed in anguish, like a dying animal voicing the injustice of its death. She put her hands over her ears as tears slipped from her tightly squeezed eyes. "No, no, no," she mumbled in quiet protest. But still the thing came, its breath, reeking of rotting vegetation.

The mild tremor grew until her limbs shook in terror. “No,” she cried out, beseeching whoever may be listening to have mercy on her. The breathing grew closer, panting down her neck in warm, sticky bursts and she could feel the heat radiating from its body. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest as the horror of her situation descended fully upon her.

"NO, NO, NO!" she shrieked, shaking her head sharply side-to-side. Then she broke fast on sprinter's legs, making a mad dash for freedom. But the thing kept pace with her, staying just behind. She could hear it crashing through the foliage, its great foul breath loud and labored.

And then she stopped; she was finished. The fight in her was gone. Madness was emerging center stage and was assuming control. If she did not confront this evil, this unknown, her mind would collapse into chaos and she would not survive.

Trembling violently, sweat running in rivers down her face and back, she clenched her fists and breathed deeply. Courage was slow to come but she gathered what she could and, before she could change her mind, she swung around in the dark to face the terror that stalked her.

There, on the path behind her, was nothing, only the empty night air.

She blinked; a small nervous laugh escaped her and she unconsciously rubbed the back of her neck. It had all been in her mind. The loneliness, the terrible loneliness, had brought this make-believe creature to life. A heavy weight lifted from her and for the first time in her memory, her spirit was light, almost happy. She smiled and laughed again, sweet release.

Then, behind her, a twig snapped and rancid breath warmed her neck.