On my dresser, in the left corner, behind a picture of a chestnut horse, there is a vase.
It is not a fancy vase of blown glass and color, or even a polished vase of cermanics. It is a vase of plain tan clay, with black char marks streaking across its ridged surface.
This vase was made for me in honor of my horse April. The black char marks on the vase's surface were made by strands of hair cut from April's tail. The hair was laid across the clay's surface before it was fired in the kiln. It was handmade by a woman in St. Louis, Missouri and was given to me by my trainer, Sharon.
Around the neck of the vase is wrapped a flaxen braid of April's hair. And in this braid are tiny pieces of turquise stones, not polished or cut in any way, just jagged. Jagged, like April.
April was in no way the perfect horse. She bit, kicked, and gave dirty looks. But she was perfect for me in everyway. She taught me how to appreciate the bad as well as the good, to grow up and learn from mistakes. Most importantly she taught what it feels like to love so passionately, and with every fiber of my being, so much that it hurts, and to let go when the time comes.
I didn't want her at first, but my trainer, Sharon, insisted that I at least give her a try, if I didn't like her, fine, but I needed to try.
The first time I caught April in the pasture took twenty minutes, thirteen rocks, and four narrowly missed kicks. Finally I was able to slide the halter up her chrome face and buckle the strap around her ears. I had pulled ahead in this game. Sam-1 April-0.
As I walked her up the field and into the barn, her posture softened, her ears pricked, and her eyes warmed. Slowly she licked her lips and chewed, a sign of thought.
As I brushed her chestnut coat and cleaned her dainty hooves, we began to relax around each othere. Therre was a new level of comfort between us. No threatening looks, sudden movements, or bared teeth.
I stopped brushing her face and slowly ran my hands along her jaw, down her bars to her soft velvet muzzle. She sniffed my hand tentatively and then gently nibbled the soft pad of my palm. At that moment I knew the score was even, she had my love and I had her respect. Tie game.
I rode April as my main horse for nearly three years before I was able to buy her. Finally, I sold my horse, Codi, and put a payment down on April. She was finally mine.
A year after I bought April, I decided to move to Oregon with my grandparents. The plan was for me to move in May and April would be shipped out in June to my uncle's house in Washington. She arrived at my uncle's house as planned but due to complications and scheduling I was not able to get her until the first week in July.
Two weeks later on July 15, 2005, as I walked her into the barn of her new home, something was wrong. She was breathing too fast and too heavy. I called the vet and he came out to examine her right away. He diagnosed her with allergies and gave her medicine to open her lungs and and airways. When the vet left she seemed to be a little bit better, but he said it would take a few hours for a full recovery.
The next day, she was worse. Her breathing was still excited and she was lethargic. We decided to take her up to Myrtle Point to be seen by another vet. The vet there was unable to diagnose her, and so he recommended that we take her to Dr. Wes Violet of Creswell, OR.
The next day at 5:00 AM I slowly loaded a barely conscious April into the back of the horse trailer and we set off to Creswell. When we finally arrived at Willamette Veterinary Hospital after three hours of driving, April was in bad shape.
Dr. Violet did some tests on her and finally gave me a diagnosis. Pleuratic Pneumonia. Her lungs and surrounding chest cavity were slowly filling with liquid.
Dr. Violet decided to perform a chest tap on her. He cut a hole the size of a quarter between her ribs and fed a piece of tubing into her chest. He pumped liquid through the hose and into containers, and for the first time in three days, April was somewhat relieved of her laborious breathing.
Dr. Violet cleaned up the wash rack and took me inside the reception area of the office and asked me to please sit down. Although April's breathing was eased, there was no guarantee of a recovery, in fact, there was a very slim chance of one. Only a 20% chance for survival and a 5% chance for a full recovery. I might lose my baby girl.
I ran to the car and grabbed the cell phone and dialed Sharon's phone number as fast as my fingers could function. When she picked up the phone I broke down. Crying, I finally got out the words. "Sharon, April is sick, she might not make is." I hear a sob on the other line, followed by a deep breath and these words.
"Don't you let go of her, don't you let that horse go. That horse has more fight in her than any other living creature on this planet, don't you let go. And if the time comes and she needs to go, she'll tell you. When you look in her eyes, and she looks not at yours, but through yours and a smile appears in her eyes, that is when you help her go. Don't let go. When they give her the euthanasia, hold on to that horse and talk to her, just talk to her. Remind her of the memories you two have made, remind her of her life and that you love her. Oh God tell that horse that you love her. Sam you can do this, don't be selfish, don't ask her to stay when she tells you she needs to go. That horse loves you more than any man ever will and you are her reason for living. Tell her you love her and hold on. Don't let her go. Don't let go.
I hung up the phone and walked back inside to sit and talk with April. I slept outside her stall on the concrete walk-way that night; no sounds were heard except the rasp of April's breathing. The next morning I awoke to a small nicker from April. The vet-assistant was bringing April's breakfast, and as we sat and watched April eat, the assistant suggested that I find a restaurant and do the same.
For the next two days, Dr. Violet continued treatments with chest taps and any medication that could possibly help, but they didn't. Nothing did.
1:13 AM, July 22, 2005, Dr. Violet gave her a mega-dose of steroids. If this didn't help then nothing would. At 1:17 AM, I made the choice. If she wasn't better by late that morning that we would say goodbye to my beloved April.
10:26 AM, I walked april out to a grassy spot behind the building slowly, putting off the inevitable end. Tears slowly formed in the corners of my eyes and silently spilled over and ran down my cheeks.
I stopped her in a clover patch and as she bent to eat she stopped. She stopped, turned her head to look me in the eye for a split second and then it changed. She was hollow and empty and was looking straight through me. She needed to go and I needed to let her. That is the first, last and only time that had ever seen my fiery Arabian mare's eyes go dim, and it broke my heart into a million pieces to see her give up.
Dr. Violet came out with two syringes, one with an anesthetic, the other containing the lethal dose. He administered the first, and April slowly sank to her knees, she was losing, slowly to her knees and then to her side, she couldn't fight anymore, and I could not ask her to. The second syringe was forced into her veins and as I blanketed her with my own body, I could feel her heart beat, slowing down, and then I heard the worst sound in the world - the last heart beat of the love of my life. Before I heard that beat I felt one last nibble on my palm, and then her chest ceased to rise in breath. I laid up her neck and cried for more than an hour, apologizing for not being able to keep her alive, and telling her that I loved her, more than anything else in the world. Although she couldn't hear me I still felt as though I needed to keep repeating it just to comfort myself. I had lost my beloved April.
On my dresser, in the left corner, behind a picture of a chestnut horse, there is a vase. In this vase are the ashes of the love of my life. In this vase are the ashes of my April.
I wrote this essay for a school assignment during my freshman year of high school. Now, it is the final month of my Senior year and I have sold my other horse, Eclipse, in preparation for my journey to college. As I prepare myself for this new part of my great journey, I reflect on the lessons that April taught me and on how she was the one of the biggest forces that helped to shape me into the person I am today.
This is dedicated to April, my best friend and my first love.And to Eclipse, I'm sorry you came after April, and I'm sorry that I was able to say goodbye to you far easier than I said goodbye to April. I loved you to, and I always will.