09/02/2026
This post has been waiting for the last week. With the busy season, it’s been challenging to sit down and find the quiet that allows the words and the feelings.
10 days ago, we laid our sweet Buddy (aka Rodney) to rest at Idaho Equine Hospital. Since being diagnosed with laminitic changes/struggles in the spring, shortly after his arrival here, he has been struggling to stay comfortable.
Initially, we thought it was a stubborn abscess he was dealing with; when the vet came out for the annual vet visit in May, we had him take x-rays to see what we were looking at, and that’s when we realized the extent of his issues. His coffin bone was rotating, his sole depth was poor, and though he was on Prascend for Cushing’s disease from bloodwork at his last vet visit (in March), he was struggling with metabolic issues.
Between May and August, we have been doing everything in our power to help him heal and find comfort. He got a pair of Cavallo boots with special gel insoles, pastern wraps to help the fit, laminae support powder from silver lining herbs, low-sugar/starch grass hay only, no more senior grain, 1.5 mg of daily Prascend, ertugliflozin, Vitamin E, small trims every 3-5 weeks to make small changes to encourage correct angles and growth, biotin, Vitamin B-12, probiotics, electrolytes and minerals, low sugar supplements for weight gain, daily phenylbutazone for pain, weekly baths to help his skin with his overactive sweating (likely due to the metabolic problems)… I’m probably forgetting much more.
To say we were fighting a losing battle is an understatement. The most devastating losses are ones that offer some hope, even just a glimmer. We do absolutely everything we can in hopes they can make a recovery. We truly never know which ones that will be.
When we got the diagnosis, we were told his prognosis was “guarded.” Ultimately, we both mourned his condition and fought as hard as we could at the same time.
At his most recent vet visit (August 20th), we learned that although we were able to prevent further rotation of his coffin bones, they were instead sinking. In a healthy hoof, the horse’s coffin bone is suspended in its hoof wall by tissues, or “laminae.” When severe inflammation of these laminae occurs, the attachment disintegrates, causing the bone (and the bones above it) to uncontrollably sink down. With enough time, the bones can sink all the way out the bottom of the hoof, where the bone is visible on the outside. It turns out, sinking laminitis has the worst prognosis. With no laminae integrity to support the bones, gravity will continue bringing them down. As sinking damages the corium, the foot is also no longer able to grow new, healthy sole to give cushioning between the bone and the ground. All of this terrible news was on top of the stubborn metabolic issues, and his challenges maintaining a healthy weight (vet believes it was due to his body fighting to manage discomfort in addition to the existing metabolic issues).
Sometimes explaining the issues helps me to process why we couldn’t ultimately keep him here. I wanted just a little more time. I wanted to see more faces light up when he pranced with little kids atop (they thought his western pleasure jog was the coolest thing ever). I wanted to see him go out in the field and run and play with no care. I wanted to see him filled in, shiny, and muscled. I wanted to see him nap contentedly in the shade, and eat his favorite senior grain at dinner time. I wanted him to have his feet trimmed and shod and hear our farrier say “he’s looking great.” I wanted the best choice for him to be maintaining what we were doing.
But that’s not what was. In reality, he stood in his shade corner all day, not acknowledging much anyone or anything. He didn’t want to even walk, even on the lead. I assume even though he looked sound walking, he must not have been comfortable somewhere based on his behavior change. His eyes looked sad and he looked on watching, whinnying when his horse neighbors got to come out for rides and laughs and he had to stay behind. He didn’t want to take his medicines. He didn’t understand why his treats tasted yucky now and he didn’t want to even try them. I always had to rotate them to get medicine in him. He wouldn’t eat carrots or apples anymore as he was too worried about medicine. He used to love apples. I tried turning him out in the field. As soon as he lost his boots from frolicking, he was crippled. He couldn’t hardly move without the comfort of the gel soles in his boots. Despite feeding him as much as he would eat, his body wouldn’t gain weight. His coat began to look dull, his ribs peeked out, and his skin was easily irritated. Every time our farrier came to work on him, he cautioned how his feet weren’t looking right.
When we took the last set of x-rays, it confirmed our suspicions. His body was falling apart (in our vet’s words). He was old; he was sick. It was time. Letting him go on like that wouldn’t be for him. What kind of life would that be if he couldn’t enjoy his favorite things anymore? If he couldn’t walk comfortably? If he couldn’t eat enough to keep up with the bodily stress?
He lived a wonderful life filled with love, adventure, and ultimately old age. Of course, we wish more of his time could have been with us, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a great life; we just barely got to know him. But holding so tightly onto something that’s more than ready to let go isn’t perseverance; it’s selfishness.
We live in a world that teaches strength is about being stubborn, and doing whatever makes us happy is the obvious choice. But that promotes the things we don’t want. Being disagreeable creates fighting and doing whatever makes ourselves happy will inevitably make someone else sad.
Helping the horses we help may seem frivolous to some, or suspicious to others. They can’t possibly imagine not “getting anything back” for all of the love, time, emotions, and money we put into these guys, but the support we receive from our community, the appreciation we receive from owners, and the quiet moments with the horses no one sees, that’s enough to get back.
What we do doesn’t always make us happy. There is confusion communicating with the public, frustration handling unhappy people, anxiety when a horse is struggling, and sadness when we didn’t hold back anything, but lost everything. Of course, we always want the best possible outcome, but we live in a fallen world and we’re not promised it will be easy.
Through it all, we can assure ourselves that everything we choose is done with kindness and compassion. We won’t call it quits without giving it a fair shot, we won’t give up on horses when they need us most, we won’t pretend that it’s easy when it’s hard, and we won’t make a horse suffer that’s ready to let go.
Saying goodbye so often, and to so many that we welcomed into our hearts and home with great hope, is never easy. When we first get bad news about a chronic condition or illness, I get a knot in my stomach. Will it be 2 months, 2 years? Will the cost be a huge strain? Will the horse be comfortable in the meantime?
We don’t do it because it’s profitable. We don’t do it because it “makes sense.” We don’t do it because it’ll be on the news. Plain and simple, we just strive to do the right thing.
Doing the right thing for our family, our community, and the animals we have taken under oath is what matters most. True love isn’t always tightly holding on. It’s being there when someone needs us most, even when it’s hard for us to watch. It’s seeing them age and realizing they’re not thriving anymore. It’s making the most compassionate choices for them, in spite of how we feel. It’s prioritizing their well-being for our displeasure. It’s sacrifice.
Every day, I remind myself what I’m striving to teach everyone I meet doing what I do. Sure, I teach how to ride and care for horses, but more than that, I am sharing my ethics and values in what I teach. Truly, I suppose we all are in how we live. If there is anything I want you to remember about me, it’s what I believe based on what I teach. Because despite how we feel, despite what makes us happy, despite what everyone else is doing, I believe doing what’s right, even when no one else is watching, is what matters most.
We are going to miss Mister Buddy tremendously. He was the sweetest boy with big, brown, gentle eyes and such patience. We are grateful we got to know even a small glimpse of the wonderful horse he was and all of the lives he touched. Ultimately, we are grateful we got to help him one last time, by being by his side until his very last breath, helping him go with grace and peace. It is never easy to say the final goodbye, but it was doing right by him. We miss you, Buddy. Thank you for being the kindest boy; we are grateful we could show some kindness to you too. It wasn’t easy, but it was right. We love you, Buddy💔 💚
