When I said the final goodbye to Socrates I wanted the ground to swell up and cover me. The feeling of failure, of failing him, was so enormously suffocating that I could hardly bear it. I got a second opinion of course, and when I didn’t like it, I got a third. The reality of that impending goodbye generated a desire for procrastination and compartmentalization that I had never previously claimed. In the macabre process of saying our farewells we sat with him, lingering, as if unable to part, and even scheduled photo shoots in a fatal effort to capture his image before we lost him forever. I lived with a combined feeling of dread and failure; for perhaps the first time in my life, working hard was not good enough, and certainly was not going to solve my monumental and inescapable problem. The last week was full of loving him, reassuring him of our commitment, and a certain self-loathing that created choking sobs at night and an exhausted hopelessness that lingered behind my eyes for weeks afterwards. In his final moments, he was of course elegant…and he was also ready, accepting my swallowed hiccups and trembling kisses, knowing that the final act of mercy was a gift. I was unwilling to leave him, and sat with his beautiful head in my lap for hours, before I allowed them to take him. His stall became a monument of flowers, plants, piles of carrots, stacks of timothy, and of course his red bucket, adorned with hand-drawn hearts. I would not discuss another horse inhabiting the stall. I felt that I was betraying him, or was somehow disloyal in allowing a!nother horse to occupy…to live… in his stall.

That final picture of Socrates hangs on the wall in my office, which overlooks the ranch that the horses own. My desk faces the back arena, and on stolen breaks I can watch our horses in the back enjoying their enrichment. The afternoons are interrupted by the babies…four darling foals that scamper, frolic, buck…..testing out new tricks and bravado with the adorable antics and animation of a box of kittens at Mardi Gras. The last rotation of the day is equally charming; the geriatric geldings, with Jack as the patriarch and our little disabled donkey, Joey, serving as both muse and first lieutenant. Our orphan filly, Roulette, has been added to the mix, and with unexpected serendipity keeps the elderly gentlemen interested, moving, and keenly engaged, all the while taking care of our little lone waif, providing a sense o!f security and belonging that had been stolen along with her mother’s life.

The Red Bucket of today has grown and evolved. We no longer allow stalls to remain vacant. There is far too much demand and too many desperate, deserving horses waiting for their second chance, and the promise that their very own red bucket represents. We have learned with time, triumph and loss that our business is one of life and death…and that the most authentic way to honor those whom we have lost is to continue saving, serving, and placing horses in homes of their very own. This morning I said another goodbye, and while I had privately said a few chosen words the evening before, I allowed myself to experience a deep joy as I fished my cordless clippers out of my tack trunk and grabbed a half-filled bottle of Cowboy Magic. I curried his already glossy coat, buzzed away the billy-goat beard, and tidied up his bridle path. With his hooves polished and new shipping wraps in place, I jogged Pilot onto the trailer that was waiting to take him home. There I stood for a few moments, watching the trailer raise a cloud of dust in its wake, experiencing a soft emotion rise in my own chest. This morning I kept a promise…a promise to Pilot, a promise to Abby, Pilot’s adoring new “mom”, and a promise to those horses that I do not yet k!now, but who wait for a special stall of their own, and a second chance.

This culture message is dedicated to Abby, John, Pilot…..and Socrates.