Saving Misty

Misty first introduced herself to me on a dark and moonless night when I was trying to open the gate to Sanctuary and loop its little rope around the stick in the ground so it wouldn’t close back on the car. Out of the pitch black, not more than two feet away, came this gentle neigh-hehe-neigh which caused me to totally jump in the most undignified way. Even when I tried with all my might I could not see her on the other side of the fence. I giggled in a rather self-conscious way in front of the Pruis headlights and said hello to my equine neighbor.

Misty gives new meaning to the phrase put out to pasture. For twenty years she explored the mountain trails with Bobsie (among other horsey kinds of things) and now at the age of 28 and 80-something, respectively, they enjoy retirement up here in the Sierra foothills. She (Misty) has a lovely stable, but she mostly spends her days meandering around their large country property, rolling in good dust spots, until she gets tucked in the barn for the night. Even the dogs don’t have it that good.

Bobsie and Miles have three of them, of various sizes and breeds, but they are all female and all the color of a sandy beach. Goldy has been forbidden access to the grounds since, during some kind of midlife crisis or something, she decided she would eat mushrooms. The poisonous kind that grow spontaneously on all the many things you find decaying under the oak leaves in the woods. They nearly lost her that day, and now she can’t be trusted on her own outdoors.

Chica, it turns out, is actually an illegal immigrant from Mexico. While on a trip way down in Baja, Chica took a liking to Bobsie and visa versa. She was part of a pack of mostly feral dogs, and Bobsie suspects she is probably part coyote, but she is such a sweet thing you’d never suspect. When returning to the states, Bobsie simply tied an all-American bandana around Chica’s neck and the border agent waved them on through.

Then there is Penny. I found her on our property one rainy day and, muddy paws and all, I carried her back home. She’s not supposed to go out the gate, but she has this adventurous streak. Today as I headed down the road to run some errands, I spied her a fair piece down the way. So I stopped and loaded her in the back seat of the Prius and turned around to bring her home. She immediately hopped on the seat (she is the smallest of the three) and with paws on the window and tongue hanging out she was certain she was escaping to somewhere good.

Bobsie’s gate was open and I drove on in. Miles met me and I explained why I was there. It is unusual for their gate to be open like that, but Miles said they were waiting for the vet, that Misty was down and it looked like this was going to be the day. Twenty-eight is a long life for a horse, but even so, how difficult to say goodbye to a friend who has shared so much life with you!

I went to the barn to see them. Two of Bobsie’s good friends were there helping. I watched as these three horsewomen worked to get Misty on her feet. After one of the tries, Misty landed back down with her head under the white rail fence. They were afraid she would try to get up and whack her head, so we tried to find a way to remove the fence rails above her. We were about ready to wreck the thing when I called Ron and asked him to come up and help.

Soon after Ron came running up the drive, the vet arrived. She checked Misty’s vitals, and said things looked good. We just needed to get her on her feet. She injected some miracle drug in Misty, something she said had an effect like aspirin on us, and waited a bit. They tugged and pulled and managed to move her away from the fence and onto a more level bit of ground. They slipped on a bridle. Then with Bobsie pulling the bridle, Ron pulling the tail, and the doc pushing on her back, Misty finally made it up on her feet. We cheered and clapped and Bobsie took her beloved friend’s big head between her two hands, and forehead to forehead, she wept. 

We stayed long enough to savor the camaraderie born of this shared experience – a fearful expectation of death turned into joy. The gift of a little more time with a beloved companion.

I’m glad Miles was wrong. I’m glad this was not the day for Misty.