A JOB WITH BENEFITS

A JOB WITH BENEFITS           

Originally published in Horse Directory,  July 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

I’ll be 62 this month. For some, that means thoughts of retirement, but for me, being self-employed, not so much. I enjoy my work anyway. Still, it has fostered thoughts of what life will be like when the aging process continues it's slow erosion of a body whose work and recreation have been of the physical kind. I've been lucky in that regard, so far.

Sometimes the physical demands of horsekeeping
can be great.

Keeping horses is a physical endeavor, and each year the demands are a little greater, no doubt exacerbated by the harsher winters we seem to have been experiencing. The winter chores are the most difficult, and can seem at times to be an un-winnable battle.

The prospect of one day being on a fixed income brings other concerns about sustaining a horsey lifestyle. Even owning the facilities and doing all of the work ourselves, it's still a significant expense. We've moved on from competing regularly and although we still train, it's for the continual development of horse and rider rather than the clear goals of competition. We do take the horses to the park for trail rides as time and weather permit, but it seems that most of what we do consists of horse care and farm maintenance.

That's the side of the story as might be told by a financial planner, but as we all know, there's more to it than that, and another kind of cost/ benefit analysis:

 I have a reason to wake up early each day. The first hour of every day is spent in a tranquil environment where I am gently but enthusiastically greeted by soft nickers and soft eyes that say “welcome.”

It's said that there is much peace to be found in organization and routine, and that may be part of the reason that I feel so peaceful in the barn. It is one area of my life that is well organized and the routine is familiar.

Much is said about the benefits of living life from the point of view of gratitude; it's kind of the latest pop-psych buzzword. Our barn is a world filled with mutual gratitude that is clearly expressed when I take the

The author, Samantha and DannyBoy introduce
grandbaby Daniel to the world of horses

time to listen. Intentions are clear, and there are no hidden agendas. Actions are the main tools of communication and words are unnecessary. The is no ambiguity here. What you see is what you get. Relationships are easy when you always know where you stand.

I was able to uncover a hidden passion for horses that transcended riding, not to downplay that part. But I discovered within me certain qualities, a patience, a teach-ability if you will, and the willingness to care for ill and injured horses. When a human is sick or injured, my immediate reaction is to call someone equipped to handle it, and take the role of support staff. When an animal is injured, my reaction us to jump in immediately, do what I can, and call for help later if needed. Are my priorities misplaced? I don't know. Theses are qualities that have surfaced that I seem to have been born with, so I attempt to make the most of them.

It's a nice thing to start and end each day with the feeling of accomplishment of clear needs squarely met. It helps to balance the frustrations that daily life and business can sometimes bring. People make extensive plans to attend spiritual retreats in order to connect more closely with a Higher Power, God, the Great Spirit, the Universe or whatever name we wish to give a power greater than ourselves. I have the privilege of living such a retreat daily, at least for a few hours.

Those are some of the line items on my cost/ benefit analysis, understood fully by those fluent in the language of the heart that is spoken in the barn.

Knowing that the horses are securely tucked
in gives a warm feeling.

LETTING GO

LETTING GO                                                                                             April 2015

By Tom Gumbrecht

Intellectually we who love our animals know that if things play out the way nature intends, we will outlive them and as their stewards sometimes we are called upon to humanely accelerate the natural process.

The brain understands it this way:

Euthanasia (from a Greek word, meaning “good death”) is the practice of intentionally ending a life in order to relieve pain and suffering.

The heart, however, knows euthanasia as “taking our friend’s pain from them and making it our own.”

No matter how completely the brain understands the concept, we are are never really ready until the heart concurs. In my own experience, I was a horse owner for some years before I had to deal with the inevitable.  At that time we had two horses, Buddy and Magic.  Buddy had a myriad of health issues and was only rideable for three of the ten years we had him. Magic, a very sturdy and sensible mare, was never sick and was always up for anything that was asked of her.  Given Buddy's history, I had forced myself to let him go emotionally many times before his uncanny life ended naturally at age 33.  Magic’s health was never a concern so when she suddenly took sick it was very hard to process, but the severity demanded a swift decision that I felt totally unprepared to make.  It was the Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving when the decision was put to me, and I selfishly and unthinkingly wanted to delay the inevitable until the day after the holiday.  My veterinarian, normally a matter-of-fact, practical sort, uncharacteristically put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said, “That would be asking a lot of your horse.”

My breath caught. He was right, of course, and I knew what the right decision was. I had not been prepared to let go so quickly.  Arrangements were made, and I did not sleep that night. I remember praying that she passed during the night so that I didn't have to face the task in front of me. That night the most aloof of our three dogs, Mickey, wrapped his body over mine in a poignant display of empathy.  Daylight came and I reluctantly rose to carry out my duty as steward for my animal.  Magic loaded onto the freshly bedded trailer that would take her to the crematory later in the day.  The vet came, and my friends and family were there.  Magic was looking through the slats in the trailer into the paddock and her eyes were locked with Buddy’s who returned her soft gaze. I held Magic until the medicine took effect and when it did, I backed off as her legs dropped out and she fell upon the thick bedding beneath her.  I was totally unprepared for what happened next; as Magic slipped away, Buddy let out a deafening whinny, the kind that if you were on his back when he did it, your whole body would vibrate.  The vet told me this was a common reaction but I never expected it.

As I closed the trailer in preparation for the trip, I noticed that Buddy walked into Magic’s stall and sniffed her blanket on the rack through the open door. He licked the two lead ropes that were still suspended from the ceiling, which had been holding her IVs, and I thought the whole scene touching. As I started down the driveway with truck, trailer and Magic, Buddy, normally as quiet and serene as you could expect a horse to be, bolted out of Magic’s stall, wheeled around and kicked the top rail of the fence closest to us, shattering it and sending splinters flying toward us as we exited the farm. When I returned later that day I was told that immediately following our departure Buddy went back to grazing on bits of hay in the paddock as if the day were like any other.  Buddy went through the entire grieving process in twenty minutes, and in doing so, began to educate me in the art of letting go.

I have lost many animals since that day, some naturally and some whose passing I had to help ease. Does it get easier? Actually, yes, because I no longer try to avoid the feelings that inevitably accompany euthanizing a friend. I don't try to manipulate them, or myself, and basically just let them run their course. Sadness is an appropriate feeling so I allow myself to be sad.  I allow the emptiness to come, and then to go. I no longer cling to it as I once did, thinking that prolonging my sadness, guilt and emptiness was a form of respect for my departed friend.

We recently lost a dog, Dusty, who had been with us for twelve years. His health had been slipping but he still had an obvious quality of and zest for life.  That changed very quickly one recent evening when he had a neurological episode that left the rear half of his body paralyzed and he was scared and confused. We were able to make him comfortable until the vet came the next day and eased his passing. In sharp contrast to my first experience with euthanasia, this was, in a way, a very beautiful experience as I held him gently and felt him lightly breathe his last breath surrounded by the family that loved him during his life. At that moment I felt honored. Brief bouts of sadness and emptiness come to me still, and I let them come and I let them go.

As I have been finding more and more frequently, I find that my animals have taught me many of life's lessons that I needed to learn: to love fully, to trust completely, and to let go. Of all the emotions that accompany the carrying out of what inevitably needs to be done, what I ultimately feel most.. is honored.

A HORSEMAN LOOKS AT SIXTY

A HORSEMAN LOOKS AT SIXTY

 Originally published in Horse Directory August, 2013

 By Tom Gumbrecht

 I've been hearing a lot of the platitudes lately. "It's just a number." Well, it is just a number, yes, but it's a fairly large one, and it's evenly divisible by ten. "You're only as old as you feel." I don't feel old at all, most of the time. Except when I have put my date of birth on a form. "Sixty is the new forty."

Lola, my OTTB mare, keeps me young..

No it isn't. Sixty is still sixty. However, except for some occasional minor joint pain, in many ways I feel better than I did at forty. The thing is, in the horse world, 60 is not a big deal. Having begun my riding career at age 45, I feel like an "experienced novice" in many ways. I have many friends and aquaintences who have demonstrated that a riding life can go on long after 60 is a faint memory. So why the concern with this particular number? Because I was, in a word, unprepared.

Numbers, and all they represent, have never concerned me much, so based on experience I believed this one would be no different. It was, though, a little bit different. At sixty, I am just at the point where I'm really comfortable jumping a horse, the point where it's no big deal and I can work on perfecting the subtleties. That's been a long road, and I found myself wondering if I have enough time left to get really good at it, or did I start too late? I began to ponder my next horse, if there would even be a next horse! My herd now is a young one. If I were to get another, would that horse outlive me? Or are these my last horses?

DannyBoy gave me a few grey hairs.. and blue ribbons!

 I never considered that before. I found myself being more concerned with the mathematics of things, and shocked by the results of my mental equations, so I went to where I go when life no longer makes sense: to the barn. I never really think about it, but age hardly exists in the barn; I suppose that's because there is no such thing as age to a horse. They are pretty much OK with doing whatever their bodies are capable of doing that day, and adapt to it almost immediately. They are grateful for having their basic needs met and can be happy in the moment they are experiencing because they are not concerned with what tomorrow's moments may bring.

 To live in the moment, to experience each moment fully and not live in the moments of yesterday or tomorrow.. that is what we have been struggling to achieve for a long time, and what our horses already know inherently. We seek knowledge in words and books; the horses carry it in their blood and bones, and are more than happy to share it with anyone who will take the time to learn their language. Perhaps that is why God decided I should have a horse...

Best friends with a racehorse.. life is good!

Friend us on Facebook: Tom Gumbrecht, Twitter: @tcgelec, or email us at tcgequine@gmail.com

Arthur and Helen                                                                

By Tom Gumbrecht

Originally Published in Horse Directory, 2008

Photo: Helen Gumbrecht with Buddy

Arthur and Helen were my parents. They both died a few years ago, about six months apart. They were good parents, and loved us very much. Neither one ever displayed much affection publicly, either to us or to each other, but they showed it in other ways. In the two years before his death my father, Arthur, was very sick, bedridden for most of the time, and my mother, Helen, was his caregiver. He would lie in bed, and she would see to his every need. When he didn’t specifically request something, she would stand by the bed, rearranging the pill cups and magazines at his bedside, anxiously awaiting the next set of orders. Arthur could only take so much of this, and when he reached his limit, he would turn toward her, frown, and dismiss her with a wave of his hand. She would quickly retreat to the kitchen, and then ease back in over the next couple of minutes and return to her station at the bedside.

After my parents died, our gelding, Buddy, got very sick for two years. He had gotten Lyme disease, foundered badly, and a host of other complications ensued. It took time to diagnose and treat the problem and the subsequent complications. During this time, more often than not, he would be lying in the paddock on his side, with Magic, our mare, standing next to him. Normally only barely tolerant of the gelding, Magic stood watch over Buddy for an entire year. Now, Buddy is a friendly sort, but he can take only so much doting. Magic would lightly nuzzle his neck, and use her nose to push small bits of hay toward his mouth. When Buddy had enough of the fussing, he would turn toward her and pin his ears slightly. This would, of course, send Magic running to the other end of the paddock, where she would hang back, observe for a minute or two, and discretely make it back by his side. Over the year I sat at my window and watched in amusement, it was evident that the love they had for each other was as intense as it was obvious. Unspoken, unheralded; just reliably and dependably there.  Like Arthur and Helen. But, it took watching my horses’ quiet devotion to one another outside my window to put aside my faint regret of never hearing love spoken by my parents.  I am reminded that words are really not needed for communication, as our horses all know.

After about two years, Buddy slowly regained a good deal of his mobility, the spark in his eye, and his nicker. And, his supposed indifference toward Magic. One November day, Magic went uncharacteristically off her feed. At dinnertime, she went out into the paddock and lied down. This was so out of character that we immediately got her up, began walking her, and called the vet. I had never seen Magic even slightly under the weather in all the years we had her, and now she had colicked.  The vet came and gave her a shot of Banamine, and we were given instructions for her care. We were concerned, but not overly so, as Magic was a trouper. But after an initial improvement, Magic was progressively getting worse. She became so dehydrated that we had to administer saline IV’s every for hours, which the vet taught us to do. Over the next four days Samantha and I were by her side constantly, taking shifts as Sam’s high school schedule allowed. I put work on hold to tend to her. It felt wrong to see her on crossties with the IV running into her neck.

Magic was Sam’s first horse, her baybysitter, her pal, her partner, her confidante. She was the mare who we let non-riders get on without worry.  Sam and her friend rode her bareback, backwards, double, standing up, dressed up for Halloween, you name it. Magic took it all in stride, and with good humor. She kept us in stitches with her comical ways, unlocking a stall door in 10 seconds to let her friends out to play. She took care of us, always. To see her in this condition was something that was hard to process.

Slight improvements preceded major setbacks. By Tuesday evening, the vet looked us in the eye and took us where we had stubbornly avoided going. I didn’t want to go there. I need more time. At least until Friday. Thanksgiving is Thursday. Dr. Perry, sometimes slightly aloof, let his eyes do the talking, and they were as compassionate as any words ever spoken. We knew. It was time. I was afraid to tell Samantha. She had lost her mother two years ago, and Magic was one of the few constants in her life in the emotional turmoil that followed. We stood in the barn flanking Magic as I heard the words come out of me. We cried into Magic’s mane as the reality of the situation set in. Buddy stood quietly nearby throughout.

That night I tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. I moved from the bed to the floor and back, trying to find comfort somewhere, but it wouldn’t be found. Mickey, our Golden Retriever, sensing my despair, just wrapped himself around me in unspoken consolation.

Morning came and I was hoping it was a dream, but it wasn’t. This was the day I had to play God with my friend’s life. The logistics of doing what needed to be done kept me busy for hours, until one o’clock when Dr. Perry was to come. I took the horse trailer and parked it next to Buddy’s paddock. I cleaned the interior and put down fresh bedding. I had rehearsed this in my mind all last night and it seemed surreal to be actually doing it. Dr. Perry drove in the gate and I put a halter and lead on Magic, walked her around the paddock, and led her onto the trailer. I followed instructions once on the trailer.

The vet prepared the syringes that would take our mare from her pain. Magic was about twenty feet from Buddy, their eyes locked through the openings in the trailer. As first one, then the second syringe took effect, Buddy let out a loud nicker, and then I was holding Magic’s head, cradling it for what seemed like an eternity. When I got up, I went and got Buddy and walked him to the back of the trailer to see his friend. He seemed indifferent. I walked him back to the barn, and he went into Magic’s stall. Her blanket was draped over the stall chain and he buried his muzzle in it. He backed up and licked the lead ropes that hung from the ceiling where she had stood getting her IV’s. Then he walked out of the stall and didn’t go back in.  I drove away with Magic’s body in the trailer to be cremated. Sam and I had agreed on that so that we could sprinkle her ashes at some of her favorite places. Buddy was always very calm, and he seemed more so than usual right now. I won’t ever forget what happened as I drove out the driveway, though. Buddy reared up, and with a snort and a cry charged around at full speed, tearing up the paddock. He spun around at the fence close to us, and kicked the top fence rail out with both hind legs, sending the rail flying in splinters. He had never acted like this before, ever. Then, he stood still, head high and still snorting, then slowly relaxed his neck and began to graze in his hay. He had grieved, and now his grieving was done.

As I brought Magic’s body on the forty minute trip to be returned to ashes, the choking tears subsided and an incredible sense of calm came over me. I was all right with it, with her, and with God.

Euthanasia, it is said, is taking the animal’s pain and making it your own. That’s a fair exchange for all she gave us.

The sting of Magic’s loss has been largely removed, replaced with the wonderful memories of a once in-a-lifetime horse.

We have a few new young horses now, and Buddy looks after them and teaches them horse etiquette and all those things we can’t teach them.

Buddy and Magic taught me to not long for what was already there. That love need not be spoken to be true. That the truest love needs no words; and that what I thought I was missing, I had all along.