Ike died yesterday, our twenty-eight-year-old gelding, who we've had since he was seven. As far as cutting horses go, he was exceptional. His breeding was even exceptional as his mother was well known in cutting horse circles, Moria Sugar. He was born with the enormous pressure to do great things, and to a certain extent, he suffered under this pressure.
A giant of an athlete who consistently scored 76's which is very high in the cutting horse world. In his younger years, he was abused physically in the selfish intent of making him turn faster and stopping him harder, and he bared scars to prove it. Permanent scar tracks on his sides from spurs, and most horribly, wire marks on his beautiful sorrel nose. There were many injuries that only showed up years later as painful arthritis.
No matter what had happened to him during those greener ages, he remained a sweet and kind soul who cared for humans, and wanted a genuine connection with them beyond just who was feeding him. He would nicker for you if he saw you had a halter in your hand, which proved to me that he loved the soft, easy exercise, just walk/trot around the arena. Sometimes we would go for the mild trail rides about the ranch. Enjoying them much, he would get very excited and sometimes sweat profusely. A few times, he didn't think about his age or condition, and started to crow hop. I was often just afraid he'd lose his balance and fall or not paying attention or not looking in his excitement, find a squirrel hole and break a leg in one.
Standing very tall for a cutting horse, in his old age, furring up into a thick coat for winter (he had Cushing's disease), he was a little too fat. My mother shaved him this fall, everything but his head and legs, making him look like a poodle (she had just tired out at that point and we made promises to finish the job and never did).
His favorite time of day was lunch. This is usually my chore as both of my parents are busy with work still. He loved his bucket of grain and sugar beet pulp. He would incessantly nicker at you if he thought you were mixing his bucket (I always gave him extra because he was older, and I don't regret that one bit). Sometimes I would tell him gently and teasingly to shut up. He was a very talkative horse.
Dad, being busy with work, left many of the chores with me. I cleaned Ike's stall, and in addition to feeding him at noon, I usually fed in the evenings. I also rode him, almost every weekend, and made sure he was shampooed from withers to hoof and his tail was braided. He was one of the few horses I ever knew that loved getting a nice warm bath. He would stretch his head out slightly and curl his lips in pleasure. He especially liked his face being washed, if you were careful not to hose him directly in the eyes. We both felt better after a clean horse!
Ike was the first horse I climbed on after taking such a long sabbatical from riding. Truth be told, I was scared to ride any horse, much less one so tall and Ike alleviated those worries in an instant. He plotted around quietly, one hoof up, one hoof down, easy does it, and only did what I asked of him. My riding relexes and skills flooded back, and once again, I was a rider. He gave me a gift I can never repay. He gave me my confidence back on top of a horse.
He died of colic. It was an impaction that might have been surgically removed in an younger horse; however Ike probably would not have survived the operation. Because he was in pain, he was humanely euthanized.
Stanford's staff and G2P team recognized my relationship with Ike, even though my parents or anyone on Facebook did not. One of the social workers was kind enough to get permission for us to leave the unit and go to the chapel in the hospital. While in the chapel, I wrote about Ike, making the notes that wrote this blog entry. Ike was my friend too. He was my horse too.
Because I'm depressed, I keep thinking about one memory, and I hope Ike forgives me. Until rather recently, I was a materialist, but I have changed my thinking. I'm not sure I believe in souls, but I believe we don't know all the answers. Ike, forgive me. Months ago, I was out at the pens, and I was in a bad mood, probably in pain, and not feeling well. Ike was his typical self, in the way, wanting to be fed. I open the gate to his house with the manure cart behind me, and the gate gets away from me with some momentum and hits him in the ribs. I instantly feel terrible, but also angry. If he saw the gate coming for him, why didn't he move? And then sad that I might have hurt him. He looks a little spooked, and distrusting. And I would never want to add to that poor baby's pain. He has been through so much. Thank you, Ike.
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