It’s been five days since Bravissima died.

That morning was peaceful — after some coaxing, she came outside to graze in front of the stable, enjoying the bright sunshine soaking into her black coat. We fed her until that always-hungry little mare seemed almost full: Her breakfast, a whole bag of carrots, three apples. Then the vet arrived for the last of so many visits to see Bravissima over this difficult last year. Bravissima had been hurting almost constantly since last March, when the ulcers started. Only weeks after we got those ulcers under control, she foundered in June, and her feet have been in pain ever since. But we had been hopeful, working so diligently and with so much love to help her recover and get back to a horse’s normal, life. That wasn’t her fate, though. Ten days ago, our vet developed Bravissima’s last round of X-rays, and they showed severe hoof separation. Bravissima’s right front hoof — her club foot, the foot that had given her trouble all her life — was literally detaching from her leg and would soon fall off. After months of stall rest, months of shifting her weight between her feet to try to keep herself as comfortable as possible, months of spending far more time lying down than any horse enjoys, her life was about to become unbearable.

I never questioned that it was the right decision — we had to let her go when she had no future except excruciating pain with such a tiny chance of recovery — but that didn’t make it any easier. Ever since I bought Bravissima, ten and a half years ago, I had dreaded making that call. Scheduling her death. Saying goodbye. She had been one of the biggest parts of my life during one of the most formative parts of my life, the friend I could always count on to greet me with a nicker, the only one who always seemed truly happy to see me. I don’t think any other time in my life has been as hard as those five days between when we received the vet’s news and when we put her to rest.

But at least we got the chance to say goodbye. We spent that Sunday afternoon taking pictures to add to the dozens and dozens of her that I already had.
Taking care of Bravissima this year, I easily spent more time with her than I had during the previous four or five years combined. Last summer, I was there so many hours a day that I joked I needed to just set up a cot in her stall, because the stable had everything I needed: Shower, fridge, microwave — and my girl. Through it all — the needles and the medicine and the abscesses and the stall sores — Bravissima’s spirits stayed higher than mine. I didn’t know I could learn so much about patience and acceptance and being positive from a pony-sized horse, and I’d never imagined that I would admire an animal more than I admire most of the people I know.

Danny also learned from this experience. He said he learned a little bit more about just how deeply I love. I’m slightly ashamed to admit that I loved this mare more than I love most people — but only slightly ashamed. She loved me more than most people love me, too.

Missing her is the oddest feeling now. There’s a pang in my heart every time I remember I can’t drive out to visit her. There’s relief that her suffering is over. There’s the empty numbness that comes with losing a family member. There’s peace knowing that she’s resting under the big tree in the pasture, beside her best friend, Apache, who died almost exactly two years earlier. There is comfort in all the memories I have stretching back half my life to when I was barely a teenager — a brand new rider terrified of the little black mare with a reputation for turning around to bite her riders’ toes, and who frequently stole the hose from me during her bath time, turning it around to spray me right back. We rode trails, we went to shows and Cracker Days, we practice drill team and dressage. But most of all, we were just together. I would call her name when she was out in the pasture, and her head would pop up. She would spot me walking toward the gate, and without fail, she would come to meet me.

We got to do that one last time on Tuesday. Bravissima spent her last afternoon outside, three beautiful hours basking in the March sunlight, grazing her way around the property. Each time I would call her, her head would pop up. When I rounded the barn to find her, she was waiting for me, craning her head out to the side to see me as soon as possible, nickering when I appeared. There is nothing in the world better than that.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her, just as I know I’ll never find a horse to replace her. There will be more horses in my life — probably a lot of them. But she was the smartest, sweetest, most personable horse I’ve ever known, and I’m so grateful to have spent nearly thirteen years loving her, and feeling loved right back.

She will be the very best of my memories.~ Laura