With Hayley Goes a Piece of My Heart

A few weeks before I adopted Hayley six years ago, she faced a veterinarian who was preparing to euthanize her and said, "Not yet."

Not long thereafter, she arrived at a beautiful farm in Harvard on a crisp October day in 2006, and immediately acted like she owned the place.  For five blissful years, she romped through green pastures with her best buddy, Bey:  the two old horses seemed much younger than their years, relishing one another's company and thriving in a drafty old barn that offered all the fresh air they needed.  Hayley galloped and squealed and even jumped into the air.  She didn't look anything like the broken horse I'd first met at Bay State Equine Rescue (BSER), and it was a joy to see her loving her life, maybe for the first time.

Before BSER's Susan Sheridan saved her from the clutches of kill buyers at an auction, Hayley had been hard used, in service as a Premarin mare.  She didn't have a name then, but was known only by her brand, #188.  It was probably her many years of inhumane confinement that decimated Hayley's lungs, and caused her breathing to be compromised for the rest of her days.

She suffered another blow last November, when laminitis claimed Bey.  I felt the depth of Hayley's sadness when I found her at dusk one rainy evening, a few days after Bey died, standing alone in the middle of the paddock where he lay, her head down as low as it could go, as if nothing mattered anymore.

Though we never found another companion for Hayley, she seemed to adjust to spending her days alone, but a certain joie de vivre seemed to have left her when Bey did.  Then came the torrid summer and its relentless humidity, and so did the onslaught of Hayley's breathing problems.  I had hoped that cool mornings would bring some welcome relief, but this year, the early fall breezes seemed powerless to loosen the grip of the long years of damage.

Hayley was failing, but she had always bounced back before, so I continued to hope.  Until yesterday morning, that is, when for the first time in six years, she lay down outside her stall as if she couldn't muster the strength to stay on her feet.  She seemed to respond to the vet's ministrations, and when I left her, after several hours, she was drinking and taking tentative bites of hay.  She'll be fine, I told myself.

She had to be.  Hayley was a mare who taught me how to trust, and how it felt to be trusted.  Who taught me how to love, expecting nothing in return, but getting so much more than I can ever measure.  Our quiet times together were a source of solace in times of stress.  She was always there, nickering a happy hello.

But last night, that voice was silenced forever, though it echoes still in my heart.  Hayley went into serious respiratory distress, and by nightfall, she was in the throes of a colic that wouldn't quit, in spite of everything we did to quell it.  This time, there was no reprieve.  No choice but to say a gentle good-bye.  A little part of me died, too, when she took her last breath.

How Horses Mourn

Photo:  Fran Hendershaw

Bay Bey's stall is still untouched, with clean bedding and wisps of hay scattered here and there.  Nothing about it belies the dreadful fact that when he tiptoed out the door yesterday afternoon, it was for the last time.  Like so many fallen horses--both famous and nondescript--Bey lost his life to the ravages of laminitis:  his elderly but still proud presence had withered in its wake.

The only kind thing was to let him go, and that is what Gwen regretfully did, loving her friend of 29 years more than fearing the grief that would engulf her as his spirit left him.

Hayley watched behind locked doors as Bey was led away, but she protested and paced and called to him, without understanding the awful truth of what was to come.  She would never again be able to run her lips lovingly over his withers, or play-race him uphill for supper at the end of a late summer's day.  For more than five years now, they've been constant, faithful companions, rarely leaving each other's side and luxuriating in their peaceful friendship as one by one, the seasons passed.

By the time Hayley was released from her prison, Bey had been laid to rest in a deep grave in the corner of a grassy paddock, gently placed next to Gwen's old Arab mare, Gracie, who had died only a few months after Hayley's arrival at the tranquil Harvard farmstead.  All Hayley knew now was that Bey was missing, and she galloped wildly through every inch of the three fenced pastures, tossing her head and shrieking with fear and disbelief that she could not find him.

An observer saw Hayley persist in her desperate search for quite a while before she abruptly stopped at the spot where several feet of fresh dark dirt covered Bey's body.  Hayley smelled the air and she sniffed the ground, and she even stood right on top of the neatly smoothed-over patch, as if Bey were but hiding behind an earthen door and could reappear at her beckoning.  

I arrived as darkness encompassed the barn and sensed that Hayley seemed distracted, but not yet fully resigned to the finality of having been left behind, and alone.  She still seemed to have hope.

By today, something had shifted.  Hayley's thick winter coat was drenched with sweat even as dusk's coolness came, and though she seemed more composed, I knew that she must have spent the day running her heart out.  There was something about her tonight that brought all of the sadness of losing Bey back again, with full force.  Her whole self seemed deflated of the joy of anticipation, and for many long minutes she did nothing but yawn and yawn and yawn, as if a terrible tiredness had settled in.

I wanted so much to protect Hayley, but not by pretending that her search would be fulfilled.  With that thought in mind, I slowly opened the door to Bey's stall, and watched as Hayley strolled in, repeating a pattern I'd witnessed hundreds or thousands of times.  We had so often found them huddled together in a place meant for one, preferring crowded camaraderie to the relative spaciousness of an unshared stall.

This time, Hayley strode in carefully, and silently snorted through every inch of the now vacant stall, poking under leftover hay strands with perked ears.  But suddenly and in slow motion, she seemed to understand what I was trying to show her, and she ambled out of Bey's space with her head hanging down just as low as it would go. 

Alone now in her own stall, Hayley sighed deeply, then nickered for dinner.  She seems to know that her life will go on, but it will never be the same, for any of us. 

Welcoming Hayley

What a happy day!

At 9:10am on this cool, misty morning, a gooseneck trailer pulled up to a small picturesque farm in Harvard, and out stepped dear Hayley, a 22-year-old Quarter Horse mare who has thrived under the gentle auspices of the dedicated volunteer staff at Bay State Equine Rescue (BSER) since they picked her out of an auction (and probable death) more than two years ago.

Just five short weeks ago, Hayley seemed to be on death's door. She had long suffered from heaves, and now that condition was compounded by the onset of heart failure. Her prognosis was extremely grim.

But Hayley had plenty of life left yet, as she let us know, both through her tremendous spirit, and the messages I had received during telepathic conversations with her. This dignified former PMU mare began to respond to the treatment prescribed by veterinarian Dr. Mark LeDoux, and she slowly, steadily rebounded.
Virtually everyone who meets Hayley falls in love with her, and I was definitely smitten. And today, thanks to the help of my good friend and colleague, Gwen Cook, and the support of Susan Sheridan of Bay State Equine Rescue, I adopted Hayley, who is shown here exploring her new paddock under the watchful eye of Gwen's gallant Arab gelding, "Back Bey."

Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that Hayley took the move from her previous quarters in Oakham completely in stride, much to the amazement of all in attendance. I had communicated with her the night before, explaining that she would be leaving in the morning to go to a wonderful new home, and showing her mental pictures of the barn and her new equine companions. I had pointedly stressed how much she was loved and how well cared for she would be. To anyone who saw how nonchalantly she simply looked around and immediately began grazing, it was apparent that she had completely understood. Thanks to our telepathic chat, the new barn was already familiar territory. Within minutes, she let us know she was home.