Nube: What If This Isn’t Wrong?
My first ex-husband used to tease me about my frantic love of shortcuts. I was always up early, on the run, impatient as a kindergarten class five minutes before recess. My multitasking skills were nothing short of genius, I thought. I did the work of a dozen in half the time. When my plans derailed, as they often did, he had a name for my shortcuts: alternate routes. We joke I should wear a big flashing yellow warning sign.
On one of my shortcuts, I was irretrievably lost, my car broke down with no pay phone in sight, and swearing was no help at all. There was simply no way to be where I needed to be, and I had to admit I was powerless over my addiction to moving at light speed. I had to give in. Not to mention, I had too much time to think while I was walking for help, but the most wonderful thing happened. A question came to me, “What if this isn’t wrong?” I noticed how good it felt to just let go. Once the anxiety was gone, I found the airy freedom that comes with acceptance.
I’m not claiming I invented the concept, just that this is what it took me to finally notice. Horse people are notorious for not giving in to anything. Bull-headed is our middle name. We drop into 4-wheel granny gear and move like a tank. It could seem prideful, I guess, but it’s just who we all are. We make our lives by hand out of found objects. Praying with mud in our hair, as tough as mules, never quitting till the last breath. So no, the thought that giving in might have a high side never crossed my mind.
Looking for the high side is a survival skill, nothing less. We resist change, but what if we have to give up something to make room for something better? The idea took root. If change was inevitable, I would not continue being its victim. I would find the dull, rusty silver lining.
Nube (nu-bay) and I had mostly recovered from his collapse while cantering. I’d talked to vets again, done more tests, and taken on research on my own. One sunset evening, I climbed on Nube’s back for a stroll. He seemed glad to be back in the arena, but a few minutes later, another collapse. Just to his knees this time, but that same instant fall. He had no more warning than I did. Nube landed without tipping to the side and I could step off. I hope I never see that look on a horse’s face again. Furrowed brows, eyes sunken, his ears lateral in confusion. I might have had the same face.
His body was changing. He had always been a juicy meatball of a horse, but now he was lanky. His muscles seemed to shrink; he was turning into a Thoroughbred body type. Still handsome, but I feared that the miracle prescription Chinese herbs had stopped working and none of the new tests had any answers to the collapses. He used calming signals to communicate that the ulcers had resurfaced for the umpteenth time, and the hidden problem persisted.
Nube was clingy, he was probably in pain. Eventually, the traveling specialist vet returned to Colorado, and we drove to see him. As Nube stood for the exam, I asked the vet questions he didn’t have answers for. He was choosing his words carefully, in that terrifying way that you know bad news is coming. He quietly admitted that he was out of ideas and so I groveled, needing more, I kept pushing, but not so much that he’d shut down. I felt pathetic and disgusting. I didn’t cry. That would make it worse for the vet. So, I begged.
Then the vet said he had a horse with similar symptoms. How did I not know this? He kept his eyes low, packing up instruments. I couldn’t tell his sadness from mine. A well-bred Quarter Horse, he said, and if he wanted to ride the horse, he needed to keep him on full-time Gastrogard.
Forever, I asked. He nodded.
We finished, Nube obligingly stepped onto the trailer, and we headed for home. We’d had bad luck with Gastrogard in three separate months of use. Nube had strong rebound effects and understanding how omeprazole works, I couldn’t imagine it would be good for long-term use. At a thousand dollars a month, I’d need a second job. I could do that, but it still would not touch whatever was going on under the ulcers.
And now my last best help had cut us loose. Even though I could barely afford his rates, I didn’t know if I could afford to stop. But if I didn’t stop soon, I’d put the farm and all the rest of the herd at risk. Was my responsibility to one animal bigger than the whole herd? Would having all the money in the world make him well?
Nube’s heart was the sun, but the rest of him was a ball of twine. It just wasn’t natural for a horse to struggle to this extreme. Could it be an internal defect he was born with? Was he undiagnosable? And saddest thought, what if this isn’t wrong?
I searched for the high side of this heartbreaking moment. Loss is such a large part of life that I knew the impasse. Sometimes the only resolution to a fight that has gone on too long with no end in sight is to just stop fighting. To let peace rise from the debris of failed hope.
There’s a thing I do when I see roadkill or animals not within my puny sphere of control. The times that I can’t help. I had to let Nube be God’s horse. I couldn’t let him suffer, only a lab rat for things we don’t know, and I couldn’t let my heart hurt all the time. So, I had to let go. Nube was retired at seven years old. Not that retiring was a bad thing. He still had friends and sunny days. There was quality hay and fresh water and donkeys to wrestle.
The first few months were hard, his symptoms didn’t lessen. Then I tried the worst thing. I made my mind dead to him, meaning I let all my thoughts leave. I became blank around him. Not filled with ideas or regret, not happy or sad. I let go of my emotion, and his body became softer. In a couple of years, the herd elder, my Grandfather Horse, passed. Nube quietly stepped into that role of wisdom, long before his years. What if this isn’t wrong?
Nube got over us quicker than I did. I buried myself in my work. Learning is solace, I studied and continued to write about Calming Signals and Affirmative Training. I received more and more invitations to give clinics in far-off places. If I had been riding Nube, I don’t know if I would have been willing to be gone so much. Along the way, I met many horses who told us they had issues that seemed to be undiagnosable. More riders searched for answers when there were none to be found. It was territory I understood.
In efforts to help my horse, I had massed a wealth of unwanted knowledge. Much of it was health-related, and as good trainers do, I had become a decent amateur vet. Recognizing our limited control, I taught gentler training methods instead of relying on fear-based ones. Better listening skills, learning to recognize subtle messages. My sadness never fully left me, but I’d become helpful to others. What if this isn’t wrong?
(Twelfth in an ongoing series, Nube’s Story.)
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