Yesterday, I had to put down my horse Jackson. He was quite elderly, likely well past his mid-20s. I’d not ridden him for many years, as he was neither as large, nor as athletic, nor as obliging as my other horse Tara. Consequently, he lived an indolent and easy life as Tara’s stable mate.

Jackson had not been himself for the last six months or so, perhaps in part because he developed equine cushing’s disease. Something was even more amiss these last few days: he was off his feed and lying down more than usual. I was definitely worried about him on Sunday, but I wasn’t sure what the problem was, nor whether it was serious. I called my vet early yesterday (Monday) morning. Shortly before the vet arrived late that afternoon, Jackson was somewhat suddenly and very clearly in the late stages of colic. He was in enormous pain — too much to be controlled by even vast quantities of drugs. He showed no sign of improvement from the standard course of treatment. As the vet was preparing to leave, we realized that the best thing to do would be to put him down immediately, rather than allowing him to suffer for more hours in the vain hope of recovery.

So that’s what we did. It was hard, but I’m certain that was the right choice.

Jackson wasn’t my favorite horse. In fact, I’d have to say that I didn’t like him all that much. Yet he was a reasonably good fellow, and he performed his part in my life quite well. Still, he was my horse, I did love him, and I will miss him. Tara will miss him far more, I fear.