Northernhorse.com Blog

At first glance, the horse that now lives only in my memory wasn’t all that remarkable. While many dream of big, black Friesians or graceful, dancing Warmbloods, I dream of a squat little white horse – an Arabian with a straight, almost Roman nose and a propensity for bucking and taking off.

She was my constant friend. I took my first driving lessons going out to the farm to ride as a teenager, took breaks from studying for University by sitting bareback on her while she grazed in the early evening and worked out the frustrations of work by adventuring with her on the trail.

We did a bit of showing, but that is an inconsequential part of our history. We solidified as a team outside of the show ring – in the arena, kicking up dust as the sun set, and on trail rides through forests and felled fields.

For years she didn’t age for me. Even as her coat grew lighter and lighter, her step always had the same strength. Until one day, it was gone.

It was only the two of us, Shantay and me. It was fall, and the air was beginning its descent into winter dampness. The sun was starting to set as we headed out of the farmyard. I brought along a camera, one of those cheap disposable ones. Although I’ve been riding for many years, I tend to plan as though I will fall off at some point each ride, which means no keys, cell phones or expensive electronics.

She was slightly restless and extremely alert, as she always was when we traveled alone. We headed alongside fields, past the junkyard and a million new industrial developments to go to a favourite spot of mine alongside the river. I hadn’t been there in several years, and had romanticized the spot so much that I barely remembered what it actually looked like.

Shantay gathered the air in her lungs and moved us swiftly forward. The soft thud of her hooves echoed quietly in the dirt as she rhythmically swatted her tail at imagined summer flies.

This evening, I tried to capture the world from between a horse’s ears. I took shots of the ground moving beneath me; the wind flipping up her forelock; and the branches of the Saskatoon bushes, long relieved of their berries, whipping across my bare arms.

I wanted to capture the bounce of her trot, the way she speeds up her gait in increments so I won’t notice, the staccato snorts of her breath and the tense of her muscles before she spooks at oncoming cars.

I took picture after picture from every angle.

We sped alongside the caragana hedge at a fast trot. She sliced the wind with her nose as her ears perked forward, always on the lookout for field gremlins poised for attack. The dirt was hard-packed from a summer of trail rides and the wheat fields had already been cut down, leaving endless rows of patchwork lines.

The trail down to the river was a lot shorter than I remembered. A parked car and the sound of voices reminded me that this was no longer the haven of my imagination.

However, the smell of the forest and an increased feeling of solitude thanks to overgrown trails eased my disappointment, and the river was every bit as beautiful. The trail ends just as the river bends towards the north and disappears from view over the horizon. I could smell the mixture of fall cold and wetness mixed in with the damp leaves as I halted her at the muddy embankment of the river.

I dismounted and we stood together. I draped my arms around her neck and breathed in the warmth of her coat and the smell of her sweaty skin under her mane. She responded, as always, with a quick bob of her head.

She was weary, though. She tried as hard as she ever had, but her breathing was heavier, her coat more shaggy. Her eyes still shone, but there was a tiredness that was never there before.

I stood back as she watched over the river, the sun sinking into the west.

We returned home in the dark, both sweaty and tired.

I don’t know if it was me or the camera, but hardly any of the photos turned out. I do have one photo from that night, one of Shantay looking out over the North Saskatchewan River. It’s a horrible picture that any photographer would scoff at – dark, blurry and at a bad angle, but it is still one of my favourite pictures of her out of over a decade of photos.

Things were different after that night. I rode her a bit after that day, but age, and as I found out later, a heart condition, took their toll on her. She took on a new role in my life as a beloved pet.

When I found out about her heart, I knew that it was only a matter of time. But, the day that I got the call that she was down, it was clear that I would never be prepared to say goodbye.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have the chance. I was on my way to the stable when the vet made the decision to end her suffering. I can only hope that she knew how much she was loved.

Chelsey