crap.

Had the vet out for annual coggins, shots, teeth checked etc for our guys.

He thinks our pony mare, Sally, is destined for Cushings.  She still is shedding her winter fur (after 3 brushouts) and well, shes an old pony. He recommends we should be careful and start watching her with grass, stress levels, hard ground blah blah blah but I couldnt hear him. Because I had other thoughts.

These thoughts make me sad.

Who, me?  Im not old, mom! I just need you to brush me more! 

Like hourly! 

With my favorite "get those itchies" brush!

We've done Cushings. Once a upon a time, there was a handsome chestnut old Morgan named Ringo, and he was a good boy.  And he was much loved.  But he didnt make it after his diagnosis of Cushings.  Bouts of laminitis finally succumbed to Founder, then nasty bouts of colic from the bute. It was an awful circle of pain for him, and quiet mental agony for me.  And in the end I had to do the right thing.

He is buried in this pasture overlooking the river, where these photos are taken.

Back to reality, I gently reminded our vet of Ringo from years ago, and he looked at me... and remembered.  

He was standing near the spot, right there where he had laid him down and injected him. And where he left me years ago; crying into Ringo's soft red mane as he took his last breaths, stroking his velvety nose and strong neck, telling him what a good boy he is, until the light had left his eyes...

There were no more explanations. 

Dont worry mom, I aint tender nor lame yet.  

Now go get the brush and no one will get hurt, I promise...

And so we will watch, and take care, and see what time brings.  Isnt that the way it always goes?

crap.

.