By: Lindsey Patton

Moody Blue wasn’t my horse. I didn’t own the 24-year-old gelding. I don’t even remember my grandfather buying him in Jordan, Minnesota in 1977. But I remember when he taught me how to ride. I remember when I was with him in the last minutes of his life.

Moody Blue was a solid black Appaloosa, born on April 10th of 1977. He was purchased by my grandfather as a 5-month-old colt whose dam had died when he was only 3-months-old. My mother was the one who taught him all he knew. Moody was the one who taught me all I know.And if horses could truly be movie stars, Moody would have been one. He had a charisma and aura around him that made people automatically fall in love with him.

[private]Moody, as he was affectionately known, had a ‘Black Beauty’ tale. He was sold to a woman who horribly neglected him. He remained in those conditions for several years before my mother finally found the money and offered to buy Moody back, although he was in poor health and had lost a considerable amount of weight. When my mother purchased him back, she promised not to sell him until his death.

Lovingly, she kept her promise.Then, when my grandfather died in 1993 of lung cancer, Moody remained the only living thing to remind the family of my grandfather, since he was the one who had chose him as the gangly little colt in the photos.

It was Father’s Day 2001 when the impossible happened. My mother went up to our barn to feed our horses and Moody was basking in the sun – or so she thought. When he didn’t run into the barn to eat, she knew something was definitely wrong. A glance at his side and she saw his right back leg jutting out at an awkward angle. When she called us outside, we noticed Moody was sweating profusely and his hock was swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Hoping it was just some twist or torn ligament, we assisted him as he hopped into the barn on three legs and then began to eat his grain.

After calling out Dr. Stone, DVM, the diagnosis was in, and it wasn’t good. “He has shattered his tibia,” Dr. Stone told us. My mother, father and I were already crying softly. The prognosis was even worse. “There is nothing to be done.” By then, I was loudly sobbing. This couldn’t happen to Moody. He was the ultimate horse. Nothing could kill him.

The veternarian returned with a dose of morphine to reduce the pain in Moody’s right hind leg and an anti-imflammatory solution to bring down the extreme swelling. When Dr. Stone asked if we wanted to put him down that moment, my father said no. We had plans and we were going to do something – anything – to save our beloved Moody Blue.

Hope still shone through. On the internet, we read stories of horses who did survive after breaking their tibias. Our hearts faltered when we also read that it occured mostly in racehorses, with a slim survival rate. When my mother went outside that evening to check on Moody, she came back in tears. He had made the tough decision for us. His injury was a compound fracture – a fragment of bone was working it’s way out through the inner part of Moody’s hock.

That’s when I began to think: when do we stop living for ourselves and start living for something else? Human beings are incredibly selfish. It never occured to us at the moment that Moody was suffering, yet we continued to keep a vigil. If we extended the days, he would soon heal up and get better. What we feared most did happen and our stubborn hope deteriorated. We had been defeated and now we were left with empty hearts.

For two more days, Moody would remain in his stall, the extreme pain only subdued by a Bute paste. Moody had changed so many lives – he was once a lesson horse, so a few prior riders trickled in to see him, to say their goodbye’s to the “wonder horse.” Moody would often peek around the corner of the barn to watch a small backhoe dig his final resting place beneath the shade of a sassafras tree in our back yard.

A close friend of the family, Jenna Faulkner, came by on the 18th of June with a bag full of peppermints, Moody’s favorite treat. He eagerly ate handfuls of the candies as we discussed his injury with teary eyes, then gave us strength with one of his infamous whinnies as we left the barn.

The day of reckoning was June 19th, beautiful and sunny. Jenna and my father both agreed to stay with Moody during his final moments, for my mother and I weren’t stable ‘nor strong enough to remain with Moody. He had been with the family nearly all his life and was more than just “any other horse.” He represented a significance to our family… he was the last living piece of my grandfather and that was deeply important to us.

We stood at the stall with Moody, feeding him peppermints. He paused for a moment and stared off in the distance. With his head tossed into the air, nostrils flaring, eyes bright… he let out a few shrill whinnies. My mother, Jenna, and I all weakly smiled as he continued this routine for nearly three minutes. Then, as if it were choreographed, the veterinarian’s truck pulled in our driveway.

It was time to get Moody out and prepared for his final walk. As my father stabled his left side and I provided some stability against his right flank, we slowly began the process of walking him down towards the gaping hole. His buddy, my own horse Pokey, was snooping around the gate worriedly. He wanted to know where his best friend was going. Jenna baited Moody with peppermints, but I don’t think he needed them. There was a look in his eyes… a grateful look, thankful that we weren’t going to put him through such misery and agony. He never once flinched, never once fought against us, never once eyed the backhoe or the hole next to him. Moody was a smart horse; he knew we were helping him and this struggling walk would soon lay down his tired body.

As the final moments drew closer, I wrapped my arms around Moody’s neck, silently thanking him for taking care of me when I rode him, for taking care of my mother when she was several months pregnant with my sister, thanking him for everything he’d ever did. I promised him he was going to feel better. After my mother literally had pried me from his neck, we both walked to the house. I heard my horse Pokey call from somewhere near the barn and began crying harder. This couldn’t be happening… not to Moody.

Never to Moody.

It was over in a matter of minutes and I heard Dr. Stone pulling out of the drive and leaving. We went outside and Jenna told us he was so cooperative, as always. It was a peaceful death… and a noble, dignified one, too. And as my father covered Moody’s body with his quilted blue blanket, we knew this wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of a new, rejuvenated life for Moody. He wasn’t in pain. He had four good legs and could frolic in pastures more green than anyone could imagine.

Even though the pain still lingers, and probably will always be there, Moody is still with us. It was his indominable spirit that was his fate… what everyone revered so much had to bring him down. But, in the words of Robert Frost: “Nothing gold can stay.” Moody will always remain in our hearts and our minds as the sleek, cunning black horse who loved to run.[/private]