If that wasn't the worst part, then what was?
It was the next morning, taking care of only two instead of the three that I was used to.
It's his empty food dish.
It was the stall in the corner that there's no rush to finish now.
It's the pile of blankets and tack that only fit him.
It's knowing that I won't have to worry about hay this year since I will only have to feed 2.
It's the look on my 31 year old horse's face when he slowly, sadly, looks around for his buddy that will not be returning.
It was the texts and emails I sent out the next day to notify Bandit's friends that he was no longer with us. Even though I sent the same message, save a few tweaks, to each person, each time I hit "send" and received a reply. He had a lot of his own friends (maybe more than I do?) that I wanted to hear the news directly from me. Each conversation brought the raw emotions back, experiencing the pain over and over again.
It's the bruise on my left thigh from his front hoof. He would never kick me on purpose, but he heard the animals in the next corridor being fed and knew he was missing dinner, so he absentmindedly struck out towards the stall door. (Normally equines don't feel like eating when they are this sick, but the wonderful pain medication allowed him to forget the discomfort and for a moment, feel hungry). He has always had poor depth perception, due to the blindness in his right eye, so the hoof hit my leg instead of the stall. It hurt a lot. Each time I rested my hand in my lap or brushed something against my leg, I felt it. The pain lasted almost a week; the purple mark is still there.
It was the phone call the following Monday from the attending veterinarian on his case. She was calling to tell me the results of the teaching necropsy, which I had requested, to have some closure. Once I answered the call from a restricted number and heard her voice, my fantasy world came crashing down. They did not decide to save him. I did not leave him at Cornell to live a better life. He was gone, forever, and they cut into his body to find out exactly what killed him. Though I wasn't really absorbing the information, I do remember her saying part of the small intestine was hung up inside his abdominal cavity. It would not have resolved without surgical intervention, I made the right decision. That helped a little.
I wanted to ask if he went peacefully. I wanted to see if they took him outside past the very young calf who was crying when we went for a walk earlier. This calf scared my big, brave boy. I wanted to warn them that he was afraid of the baby, who was lonely and crying for company. If they had to walk him past the calf, hold on tight. I didn't ask though, as it wouldn't matter now.
It was a strange, white, bubble wrapped package that appeared in the mail a couple days later. The return address label was from Cornell. I wondered what I had left there that they felt the need to mail back to me. My husband opened it; a braid of his hair tied at both ends with ribbons. I have yet to touch it; it's on the table next to the place where my dog's ashes (she passed away almost two months ago) sat in an engraved wooden box, in a fancy paper bag, up until a few days ago, when I finally got up the courage to move it to a shelf.
It is all the reminders and memories that will not go away. The anniversary of when we adopted him ( 3 years ago next month), the vet bills for the services of those that worked so hard to save him. The fact that a donation was placed in the name of my late beagle mix, Libby, to Cornell Veterinary Hospital, and we received the card to thank us in the mail less than a week prior to experiencing their services in person. The condolences and sharing from those that knew him. The pictures and memories that will pop up from time to time. It is knowing I will never hear his unique "fog horn" mule bray again. The fact that no other creature on four legs will have such a sweet disposition and loving personality. It's realizing that Bandit the Mule is gone.
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