“I don’t guess it’s a thing you ought to forget. What I mean is, things like that happen. They may seem mighty cruel and unfair, but that’s how life is part of the time. But that isn’t the only way life is. A part of the time, it’s mighty good. And a man can’t afford to waste all the good part, worrying about the bad parts. That makes it all bad.”
—Katie Coates in Old Yeller
It’s one of those moments that I dread. I’m well aware of its inevitability, but such thoughts are ones I usually set on a shelf of that closet in the back recesses of my mind that I only open on occasions of sheer necessity. But as much as I dreaded it, I knew I had to open the closet door.
It was an early fall afternoon, and just as I’d done nearly every day for the past several weeks, I was mixing some water with a concoction of grain and a little alfalfa so old Dixie could get some nourishment for the day. The old mare, who was approaching her 29th year, had been going downhill for several months, and even though the extra TLC I’d been giving her had kept her hair sleek and her motor running, on this day I could tell that some of the light was gone from her eye and there was sort of a listlessness to her step. I knew that in the very near future I was going to have to do what I would have to do, regardless of the difficulty or the sadness it might bring.
My thoughts drifted back to the day nearly 25 years ago when my friend Bruce, who’d come to help with some day work, asked if I wanted to buy the little mare he’d been riding. She wasn’t papered, but she was out of one of Bill Wells’ old Mr. Gunsmoke mares. Not really much to look at – kind of big-headed and narrow-hipped with barely an aught-sized foot – the offer sort of appealed to me after I took her for a test spin. Her appearance, coupled with the meager $400 price he offered me, made her a perfect fit for my outfit.
In spite of her propensity to run around the pen at least three times before she’d face up to let me catch her and the fact that she’d relentlessly lean away from me when I’d shoe her hind feet, she quickly became one of my favorites. The set to her head was terrible, and she always wanted her nose higher in the air than what any “good” cow horse would allow, but she loved to work. No matter how tired she was, she was always eager to do whatever was asked of her, no matter if it was gathering cows on the mountain, sorting in the feedlot, doctoring grass yearlings on the pivot or heading steers at the high school rodeo, the homely little sorrel never gave less than all she had. She was never a kid horse, but she probably taught my boys more about cowboying than I ever could have on my own. When my sons eventually grew up and moved out and on their own, each of them compelled me to make a solemn promise that Dixie would die on the place.
So, here I am at one those unavoidable intersections in life. It’s a byproduct of the lifestyle, I know. Nearly a quarter of a century ago, when I first sorted a cow from the back of the little red mare, I knew I’d have to deal with her eventual demise. Of course, at the time, and for most of the time that has elapsed between now and then, I didn’t give that a thought – nor do I believe I should have.
It's a part of life that every one of us has to deal with. Not one soul who ever steps foot on this earth will escape life without experiencing loss and sorrow. And those of us immersed in the stewardship of God’s creatures may be more acquainted with the accompanying grief than most. But that’s not cause to mourn. Rather, I think it’s more a cause to rejoice and revel in the joy that precedes the heartache.
No doubt I’ll shed a tear or two when I have to break the news of another old friend’s passing to my kids, who will also feel the sting of the loss. Even so, we’ll know that this bitter part of life only makes the good part that much sweeter.
