I cried when I first came to the realization that Ezhno and I were no longer a good fit for each other. Then I cried again when I actually started the process of trying to sell him. I cried when I went into his stall, I cried in the middle of the night when I should have been sleeping, and I cried every time I got into the saddle because I wondered if it would be my last ride on Ezhno. It was sad—I was sad.
When I got on him for our last ride on Tuesday, I was still sad—but in the small, wistful way that one might feel when a good friend tells you they’re moving abroad for a year; you’ll miss them, but you know it’s going to be a great adventure and that you’ll see them again someday.
The hardest part didn’t come until after the trailer pulled away on Wednesday morning. The emptiness that he left behind made me feel lonely. I stood next to my car for a long time, just staring at the run that Ezhno used to stand in. I wondered if he thought I had sold him to another family—we tell ourselves not to anthropomorphize our horses, but sometimes it’s hard to resist the urge to place ourselves in their shoes.
There are a lot of small signs that Ezhno is gone. His halter’s missing. His bridle’s gone. His tub of blankets isn’t taking up space next to my tack box. The rack where my western show saddle used to be is empty.
But I’m glad I didn’t sell him, because even though it makes me sad to see so many blank spots that he used to occupy, I know that someday we’ll come back together again—even if that might be five, ten, fifteen years out. He’s a good horse and I want to make sure that life’s always as good to him as he was to me.
Speaking of him being good, here’s video of Ez being a saint during our last ride. 😇