Beau Soleil

         Every unique individual on this planet holds a certain something close to their heart.
A childhood memory, fragmented and exaggerated; a lover, lost in the turmoil of time and place or present and outstanding. My heart is shrouded of something much different, something black and constricting.

The mighty eagle sailed high above the watching world
Carrying his heart on his wings
Commanding the sun and it’s shining
But a cloud loomed forward on the horizon
And soon he was engulfed, falling
For the light cannot beat the endless darkness
And he perished, tarnished and unjust

         On the day of January 18, 2009, I was in Nanaimo with my family moving into our new house. At the end of the day we were all cravingly hungry and made our way to the local super markets deli. I’ve never been a person who believed much in things such as karma and premonition. However when I placed my bite of Chinese food in my mouth that evening, I had the most sick, disgusting feeling run rampage through my veins. The clatter of my spoon resounded as I bolted to the washroom, only to stand over the sink taking deep breathes, shaking slightly in pathetic convulsions. What was happening to me? I had never, never felt so utterly terrified and sick for no apparent reason. With feet dragging, I sat back down with my curious family only to refuse any substance they handed me. Dejected and incredibly confused I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to rub it off.

         Apollo, or known as Beau Soleil at horse shows, was a bay thoroughbred gelding in which I had grown up with. At the age of 11 I joined a riding stable and was your cliché little blonde girl running around doing chores and goggling at my coach as she rode her magnificent mahogany mount over impossibly high obstacles. Defying gravity and bending time in a flurry of hooves and polished brass. That horse, the one I spent years watching, hoping to one day be good enough to ride a horse “like that”, was my Apollo. After many trials and troubles, spills and accidents I was one day good enough to ride the coaches horse. The first lesson I had upon his back, he was so strong and outrageous he ripped the tender skin between my fingers as I gripped the reins in a frantic attempt to look somewhat in control. Really it was a ride from hell, but for some unknown reason; I wouldn’t ride any other horse except him. Three years I owned my baby. We started from our first show, in Courtney showing the 2’9 and bringing home a few ribbons to winning champion in almost every single horseshow I entered. Apollo took me from the lower heights to the upper levels. We rode clinics in the 4’0 groups, riding alongside coaches and riders double my age. We showed in huge venues, from Vancouver to Oregon and he taught me so many countless things, my brain swims as I try to remember every lesson and feeling he evoked in me. More important then our track record together, was the friend he was to me. He was my shoulder to cry on, and in a demented way, my source to release my anger. He was a teacher, a brother, a lover and anything and everything in between. If the world had a face, I saw a long elegant nose and a perpetual twinkle in the eyes of glory.


         My brother has been known to have a selfish side, and even better known to take horrible phone messages. So you see, as we drove home from the exhausting day and he mentioned that Apollo’s new owners had phoned to my mom on my cell, panic immediately licked it’s way up my throat. Apollo’s new owners were good people, but they had bad finances and still owed us money. We all knew they would never phone unless something was wrong. Probably extremely wrong… The terror of that night, started as soon as my mom hung up the phone and squeezed her foot tighter to the gas pedal, speeding off towards home. Gravel flew, and the door stood ajar as we flailed around the house frantically searching for a long lost phone number. After many disgusting minutes of panic my mom held a two second phone call with Apollo’s owners before hanging up and telling me to get in the car. I never did find out what Christine told my mom.

Is there really a light at the end of the tunnel? Or is it just a reflection from your tears?

         What was this? A lump of something covered in shiny silver foil with an eerie red orange light radiating around it. This is what my shocked brain took in as we rounded the treed driveway in the frozen city of Courtney. My chariot of doom rolled to a stop directly in front of the grotesque mound and without voluntarily thinking it I knew what had happened. What my eyes were relaying to my conscience was something like this. My horse, in an unfamiliar blue blanket, sprawled on the ground. Underneath him was an old comforter and under that I could see sprinklings of shavings in the ice. Over top of his body was one of those heater blankets, the tin foil type and a pool ladder with an industrial heat lamp perched on top. The cords lay twisted and draping around the scene, like snakes waiting to strike. Beside his once magnificent body was a pile of green hay and his head, his sweet elegant face, lay resting on a bare pillow. The last thing I must have seen, or possibly the first was the bright pink cast poking through the hunter green trailering bandages protecting his legs. All this was viewed through the window of the truck and the criss-cross of the wire fence immediately gave the setting of a jail. The only issue to resolve now, was who was the convict? Me or my horse?

         “Oh my god… APOOOOLO! … Call his name Chelsea.”
                   …
         “Chelsea. Say something! He knows you’re here.”

         I somehow managed to open that door and swing my feet to the frozen ground. They felt like lead as I gazed down and whispered his name. I’ll never forget the look he gave. If a horse could look human, Apollo looked like an victim of the Jewish holocaust. His face was shrunken and looked as if he had endured a thousand pains. As my choked voice rang softly through the air, Apollo grunted heavily and pulled himself up into a lying position and the soreness of his appearance cut my soul into shreds. Only the first of the wounds my body would experience from this fateful night. Eyes, eyes that were once filled with the wisdom of a kindred soul and the spark of a rebel, lay dull and barely seeing in the recessed sockets. His coat lay dull and lank, longish due to the advanced winter and his black mane was several inches longer then I remembered him by. If I had not mesmerized every little detail of his profile in my youth, I would never have believed this was the same horse. Someone must have been playing a cruel joke on me, but wait; he knew my voice, he responded to the stupid little melody I say his name to. This is my horse, and this is our end.


         When I think of what would be a suitable death for an animal as outstanding as an equine, a last day of pampering and reminiscing and a big field with a pile of apples in it would be what I would choose. Unfortunately, my experience was quite different. A horror movie is less eventful, less stressful than the night of January 18th and our little piece of frozen hell in Courtney, BC. The walk from the car, around and through the gate to Apollo and his temporary family is something I don’t remember. I don’t remember what the people who were there looked like, I don’t remember what his paddock looked like or any noises, colors or smells outside of me and him. What I do remember, I remember as if it was yesterday. I can wake up in the middle with my knees aching from the punishing ground and tears in my eyes because I had just held my best friends head in my lap as he died. But the sad reality is that it happened months ago, and I can never, ever forget. I clearly remember being almost impressed with myself as I calmly asked what had happened. My voice didn’t crack and I didn’t break down, something I was sure would happen as soon as I opened my mouth. Standing a few feet away, I stood with my hands in my coat, looking at the abnormality in front of me. The way he lay there, chewing a few mouthfuls of hay with great effort, his once deep brown pools of glory, unseeing. That entire night, I fought the depression of the thought that he couldn’t see me. Did he really know it was me? Could he tell how much I was hurting, how much I was pouring my heart out to him? Did he accept my endless apologies, my promises that I would never, ever hurt him again.


         The answer that I received was that on the 15th they had come out and Apollo wouldn’t move, his left hind was incredibly swollen. It seemed he had slipped on the ice and they quickly gave us the vets prognosis. He had had x-rays on both hinds and in his left he had a six point fracture in his pastern. He had gone down mid-day on the seventeenth and hadn’t been up since. Unexplainable anger burned through me. Ironically my heart was falling at the same time. January 15th…3 days ago he had broken his leg severely and yet he was still lying here. What the hell were they thinking?  Who the hell do they think they are? I should have been informed immediately, he was my horse… All this rang through my head as Jessica was explaining that the vet had recommended he be put to sleep, a 6 point fracture is incredibly severe in a horse and only his pasterns were x-rayed, he could have internal bleeding, broken hips, torn back muscles…. Surgery was an option, although starting at $10,000 he would be put in a tremendous amount of stress and IF the surgery worked, he could do no more then hobble around for the rest of his life. At this point, Apollo had laid back down, his head missing his pillow. This is when I took my rightful position beside his head, my hands running endlessly along the curvatures of his cheekbones, gently pulling his tuft of a forelock and cupping my hand over his starring eyes as he sighed no louder then the hush of a butterfly.

         I have been one to make wrong choices. Choosing a flavour of ice-cream involves great debate for me and yet, when it came to the choice of life or death for me and Apollo, there was no choice. After the story of how Apollo had gotten into this state had been told, a huge question hung in the frosty air. What now? I was surprised when the conclusion came out that they could not make the decision. Deciphering though Jess’s sobs, it was clear that she would not make the decision to kill her horse, even if it was obviously the humane thing to do. Without anyone saying it, we all knew instinctually that I would be the one. I would have the final say. As I look back now, I can’t believe that I was even put in that position. I sit for hours in the night, wondering what the outcome would be if I had gone the other way? Ultimately however, I know in my heart it was right. It may have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but I made my amends and I can now only hope that one day, I will see my baby again.

         One analogy ran through my head sometime during that night and it was the only moment of the night I let myself completely break. I can cry in front of people but I cannot sob, I’m silent and let the grief tear my insides, instead of showing the world. Apollo had always been a champion, he had carried me to incredible heights literally, and emotionally; and here he was broken. It should be impossible that something with incredible energy, never-ending charisma and unsurpassed talent should be reduced to little more then death. Turning away from his slowing dieing body I covered my mouth and sobbed into the night air. No one followed me as I made my way to the fence, leaning on the rugged wood, chest heaving and the words oh my god spluttering through my lips. As if “god” could do anything. For more then an hour, our small group of mourners, talked ideally. My parents laughed encouragingly through their tears at the stories they told, depicting Apollo in his younger days. Telling stories of when he would bolt away from me, running through the property bucking like some erratic yearling; or how picky he was, rummaging through my lunch to pick the good stuff. They made it seem like the days of lounging for hours on the tree in his paddock, wasting away time together in complete bliss, would happen again. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

         The night only lasted about four hours. Through those 240 minutes, my eyes never left my horse, my nose never stopped inhaling the scent of his skin, even if it held the ever increasing stench of death. Like a hawk, I recorded every movement, every breathe he made, and helplessly, I watched as his gums turned white, blood rushing away from his capillaries, his body trying desperately to fix his ailments. His eyes passed the point of glossy, deflating through the seconds and almost completely unseeing by the end. Not until later did I learn that he had only one shot of pain killer, almost 24 hours ago, he lay still and almost tranq’ed like. But it was pain that left him immobilized. The only moment where he moved, were filled with fear and tension. The first time he tried to stand, we all rushed backwards, away from his splaying legs and frantic struggle. All we could do was watch helplessly as he tried fruitlessly to stand on his three legs, the ice threatening a  crash and his limbs growing increasingly close to sliding through the wire fence. Up and down he went, my panic growing expediently as his groans resounded through my equilibrium. Before anyone could react, before I could even process my actions my feet carried me forward, my arms wrapping around his thin neck pulling his body back to the safety of the ground. Dropping to my knees his head landed in my lap and stillness enveloped his body and I once again resumed my neurotic stroking and mumbling. I never wasted the precious seconds to look at my family but I feel their shock at my braveness, my complete lack of self-preservation and the coolness in which I took out my actions. I’ll stress again that in the back of my mind I was still impressed in the composure I displayed, I’d learn later in the tearful hugs I received, that I was apparently the bravest, amazing woman “they’d” ever met. Personally this means nothing, I did what I did for no one but me and Apollo.

         At one point in the night, I was standing away from Apollo, giving him his space for a few minutes while his temporary care takers took time away in the distant to compose themselves, that Apollo tried to stand again. This was his last stand as I’ve come to think of it. His piercing whinny jolted us as his last ounces of energy surged to his muscles trying to getting his body latitude. Instinctively I rushed forward my eyes locked on his face as he struggled and grappled for verticality. Someone held me back… I’m not sure who, I never bothered to look but strong arms held my two arms behind my back as I struggled wordlessly, wanting nothing more then to save my horse. My heart exploded with fear every time he fell and his leg went under the wire fence, every time his front legs caught the footing and teetered for a few seconds only to land several feet away from where he started. In the corner of my conscience I heard  people screaming to call the vet, to get a gun… Jessica’s scream sounded in the distance as a door slammed, I’m sure I could here the pressing of buttons on a phone but then again, I’m sure that was my brain trying to block the thought of a gun. A person, only a grey blur in my memory ran forward, ranking the blue and white pool ladder away from Apollo’s personal fight however the cords still became entangled in his feet. The cobra’s had stuck.

         His heaving body came to rest, about ten feet from where he had started. On a slight downwards hill, his body half on a blue tarp that was laying there, the light from the lamp didn’t reach his face.  I must have been released from my restraint because I found my self alone at his head. Looking back quickly, everyone had backed off, talking quietly among themselves. I heard nothing but their bluish lips moved depressingly. I wouldn’t be bothered again that night. All that was left was the final moments of my life, my life up to this date. The knowledge that the vet would be here soon became apparent to me, don’t ask me how someone; must have told me. I pulled Apollo’s head close to my body, his forehead against the front of my calves. I avoided looking in his eyes, for all the essence of him was gone, he was dieing in front of me and I knew I had little time left. Using my right hand, I stroked the side of his face over and over, my pinkie always connecting with his coat first, my stroke ending when I hit the ticklish whiskers on his muzzle. Back up again, my hand went. A part of me wanted to take his blanket off, I wanted to see the concaves of his hips once again, the three little white dots on his flanks or his alien hand print I mused. I wanted to brush his tail, picking up and dropping the hairs until they flowed smoothly through my fingers like onyx gold. But I refrained, for I knew he would not be what he should be. A fleeting and horrible vision of a slowing decaying body flashed before my bloodshot eyes and I choked back a sob. The conversation I held with my first love, is something I don’t think the world needs to know. I can say though that I didn’t beg him to get better, I did not have a change of heart and start praying to god. I mostly apologized, for every spur or harsh word. For all the pain and pressure I put on his body and soul. And with apology comes thanks, complete and sincere thanks. Nothing so truthful have I felt before then on the last few minutes of our lives.  I will cherish those precious moments until the day I die myself, the day my soul can be whole again.

         Another thing my fragile state of mind didn’t pick up that night was the details of the vet. His car, his voice and his appearance are completely absent from my memory. However, his actions and the few words he spoke are etched in my cranium. As he knelt, placing a tall yogurt container with two huge syringes in it to the side, he mumbled a few words to Apollo, calling him “big boy” and stating how unfair it was, this is the part of his job he hated. No really? Thanks for the obvious bud. His stethoscope rested against the side of his body, in the crook of his elbow and I clutched Apollo’s  face to me protectively as the vet did a quick once over of his body.

         “I’ll have to give him a sedative, I just have to find a good vein in his neck” Spoke the noose man. My eyes watched him as he took a needle full of clear liquid and fingered  Apollo’s neck, searching for the jugular presumably. The needle entered his skin three times, the night made judgement hard and a coldness spread over my heart as I watched blackish red liquid seep down the russet skin of Apollo’s neck. When the liquid finally left the plastic container the man said something along the lines of having to wait a few minutes for it to take action. Momentary panic gripped me as the truth of it all hit me. I didn’t know how euthanasia worked, how long it took and the procedure. I was numbly shocked as the man pulled the yogurt container towards him, taking one the mammoth syringes in his hand and injecting it into Apollo’s neck. I remember summoning enough voice to ask how long it took and the answer he told was basically immediately. I had approximately 6 seconds of my life left. I should have made it beautiful, being strong and composed knowing exactly what was happening and what to say but I’m not sure I did. I’m sure my last few words were incoherent and my hands remained still on the dieing face. As the last of liquid was pushed into his blood stream, I gave his face a final squeeze before I leaned back to let the vet put his arm on Apollo’s neck and cheek. Apparently the heart can give a temporary kick and horses have been known to suddenly get up and run away before their heart runs out. Sharp surprise when Apollo’s body contracted, levitating him almost an inch of the ground. The vet’s body came down on Apollo, applying force downwards, holding him down for a second before I pushed his arm of his face, I would not have him die in the hands of anyone but me. Good luck. This was the last thing I wished upon him as he took his last breathe.

         The last two memories I have of me with Apollo’s body are not ones I like to remember. After a moment of pause, his head securely in my lap, I lifted my face and we knew he was gone. The vet went about his “death” check. His cold metal stethoscope resting on the still ribcage and lastly his thumb reaching to his eyeball. I thought he was being respectful, shutting the eyelid so he could finally have a restful sleep. But I was sadly mistaken as his thumb was pressed onto the cornea, pushing and pushing until I almost reached up to claw the man’s face off. Sadly, he was only doing his job. I was left alone with my baby for a final goodbye. My knees pressed into the frozen earth, my body almost numb I bent over his head and neck, my hand buried into his skin and sobbed. My final tribute to the greatest legend on earth was the pain. All that was left to do was get up and walk away. And that’s exactly what I did.


Epilogue:

         I wrote this piece because this is what I feel inside. I did not embellish any of it. There is no exaggeration and the words I choose, the sentence structure and the conation of it is seriously what I see in my mind. I know that no words, no author on this planet could capture the actual depth of emotion I felt that night, what I still feel today. However, this is my attempt. I argued with myself if I should write this out, it’s something no one knows. What really happened that night has been my own personal nightmare. I have to live with every single second of that night and I just felt that I needed someone to know. I did not include every literal second of that night, but I do remember them…