by Ann Patty
Did I tell you yet about his/our cart accident? Yes, it is true: we had a bad one and I almost lost my Abba on a day 17 years prior to his real passing. Our town at that time was sleeping. Rural roads and country lanes were abundant as were unfenced fields with open range. This was a time before Microsoft created millionaires. It was these millionaires who eventually flocked to our pristine valley to ravage and scalp the land into their idea of perfection, which belonged elsewhere.
Anyway, often I would hitch up Abba and gallivant around town in our buggy. Smiling people waved and commented that we looked like we were having fun. One day, my friend Ann, my daughter, Bella, and I decided to take a country cart ride. We hitched my Abba up. It was a fresh spring day, one of those days when the moist sea air extends in from the Puget Sound. We stretched out and drove down our sleeping country road. Before us lay a promise of a perfect cart ride. We girls were on an outing with Ab carrying us proudly. During our trek out, I noticed the left of my two cart wheels was low. I asked my friend Ann to trade places with my daughter and to sit on the right, shoulder side. This turned out to be a godsend. On our way home, IT happened. Going home off a slight slant of a hill, an old, very noisy car passed us. Now, Ab was not concerned about cars as such; he had traveled many roads and never yielded a flinch—he grew up with my son racing motorcycles around his pasture.
Nevertheless, I steered Abba to the right shoulder. As I did so, that single decision, still etched in my memory, led us into a moment of hell. Not only did I hear the passing car's muffler cough, but simultaneously there was a crack-pop of brittle branches caught in the spokes of the cart wheel. Our cart jerked, then lurched ahead. Abba jumped forward into a trot. I assured him, using my voice. My hands spoke-telegraphed firm and calm through our long reins. He settled in quietly, only momentarily.
Abba listened and responded—thus I got comfortable too soon. I should not have. I let our reins relax right after bringing him back in hand. Too soon, way too soon. It was not over. In the next stride, Ab twitched his ear back, cocked his head right a tad, and jumped forward again. The reins—my reins—slid through my hands. So fast this all happened, within these few time-stopped seconds. These are the slow-motion moments that strike terror in one’s heart. It's when you absolutely know something really bad is about to happen.
I gathered the reins back too late. Ab picked up speed. And that was when our right wheel lost road grip, shoulder grip, and caught air. Abba, blinded with blinkers, could not see and headed for the ditch, a three- then five-foot drop-off. There was no going down with this ship. My first concern was for my daughter. I turned left, grabbed Bella by the waist and jumped out. My friend Ann saw the writing on the wall. Already sitting on the shoulder side of the road, she bailed out, tumbling to the downside of the ditch. Somehow, I don't know how, I grabbed my young Bella and jumped into the street, to safety. In fact, as we exited, I stood up with Bella, unharmed. Upon the pavement we stood.
In my panic, I spun around to see Abba at the bottom of the ditch, running blind and parallel to the road. I had to catch him. He could not run home in his panic. The noon kindergarten school bus would soon be on our road. A thousand scenarios raced through my head. My head swam with thoughts, as my body swung around faster to check on the status of Bella and Ann, then back to Abba. It all happened too fast. I twisted around, and was already running down the road after him, but my feet were left behind—glued in place.
Flat on my face I fell with full body and chest hugging the concrete. I looked up to see Abba emerge from the ditch, and run at lightning speed down the road. Then, without hesitation, he turned the first corner, heading home. He was on high alert and in full flight mode, as if being chased after. He was—chased by his cart that was still attached. In fact everything was. The long reins streamed out behind Abba as whips. The weightless cart bounced up and down in unison with his jumping long strides. It was a haunting sight. It was as if his equestrian apparel were hunting him down two paces behind.
The man in the passing car saw our fiasco in his rear view mirror. He turned around, came back and offered me a lift to catch up to Abba. I accepted after leaving my Bella in Ann's charge and seeing that they were both fine. We screamed off down the road. We too were now hunting Abba. Holy smokes, that horse was fast. I looked over at his speedometer and it read 33 mph!
Before hitting the straightaway of our homestretch, I watched as Abba turned the final corner. It was too sharp. His feet paddled sideways to keep his cart upright. He was going too darn fast for that corner. “Hey, watch out, you!” I wanted to shout, as I would to one of my kids. His metal shoes were slick, with no traction. Abba's legs slipped out from under himself, and down he went. Abba totally tipped over sideways, cart in tow and still in running position.
Onto his left side he fell in perfect position with our cart, wheels spinning. I approached him with worry. Abba was blowing hard. Nostrils flared; his body trembled and shook with shock. I saw no sign of injury, but knew instinctively he needed to get up. Too bound up at this angle, the cart was not to be undone. The corner farm owner, a gentle older man, came out. We worked together simultaneously; he helped raise the cart as I steadied Ab to his feet.
I unhooked Ab's harness. As I stood at his left shoulder, I felt warm upon my left thigh. Looking down, I saw a very large pool of blood growing at the base of our two feet. Adrenaline already running high, I did not know whose blood it was. My pants were soaked, as was his leg. Then I saw his gash. He was filleted open on his upper leg. His meaty part, the tendons and muscle, hung loose, exposing his leg bone. Terror struck my gut. By this time the car man had returned Ann and Bella to me and had gone on his way.
Ann held Ab. The bleeding seemed to curtail itself. I ran to the farmer man's house and his wife gave me their phone book to use—this was before cell phones. I thumbed through the pages and bloodied up her book, apologizing the whole way. It was fine, she said. I found my now longtime vet friend John's phone number. He just happened to be passing through town on another emergency. He came out right away—to our good fortune, he was only minutes down the road. When I returned to Ab, his bleeding had all but stopped. The crater had cauterized itself! Dr. John appeared, looked at it, and made a quick assessment. He said he was on his way to another more severe farm call—that Ab could wait. He would bleed minimally more. And we could walk the one-mile home, slowly.
And so we did, all four of us. Reeling from panic and shock, stock-full of adrenaline, we found one foot in front of the other taking us home. The cart stayed behind until later retrieval. It received no real damage other than a few steel scrapes and a bent buggy bar that was easily heated up and realigned. Once upon our front lawn, not one of us could move much more. We were emotionally and physically drained and relished the comfort of home. Abba knew home turf and stayed strong on his feet. I jumped into action. The flies were out swarming. A possible infection to his wound might result. I padded his wounds with several absorbent sanitary napkins. These large, soft, sterile cotton pads make wonderful band-aids, by the way. I still keep them around just for this unique purpose. When Dr. John returned, he thought my sanitary napkin band-aid was ingenious. A great way to protect Ab’s wound from flies and other infestations. I was sure I wasn't the first to think of this, however.
For two hours John stitched my Abba whole again. He was an excellent seamstress. Guess John did some stitching of sails in the navy, or so he said. From Abba's bone forward, each layer was re-laid, realigned, then re-tied together to match up perfectly. It was like setting puzzle pieces together. Later I went back to our accident spot and had to hold back my barf. I do not know how my Abba survived the bottom of that ditch. It was purely a miracle.
An old fence line lay hidden in the bushes, in waiting. He may have impaled on an old wooden fence post to get a gash that deep. But the skin tear was serrated, suggesting a barb. Then I saw it for what it was: it was both the fence post and the barbed wire wrapped around it! I had not been able to figure
it out until just then. I saw the post at the bottom of the ditch. And too many strands of barbed wire that stretched to the next downed post. Perfect tripwires, hidden as they were!!! All that death waiting to happen—and somehow my Abba had run through and over all those wires without ensnaring any other body or cart part! I went to bed that night nauseated.
As John was stitching up Abba, my son and husband had driven up in the driveway. As they passed us, their faces, particularly their mouths, went agape. They did not know what had transpired. All they saw was the result: a giant bloody hole in place of Abba's perfect leg. But when Dr. John's job was complete, my Abba's leg was fur again—and quite swollen. John ordered stall rest for several weeks, a recheck, and we'd be on our way once more. John said we had been extremely lucky. If the injury had been a bit higher it would have severed a main artery, and a bit lower, the leg. Either way it would have been his life.
I now know this injury was not lucky or by chance. It was predetermined, or “designed by destiny” as some would say. Events of this nature compel me to think that previous lives exist. I question why Abba's life had been spared by a fraction of an inch. Did he not have this opportunity granted to him—us—in another sojourn? And now, in this life, we were blessed with a new beginning and a second chance. I speculate that journeys traveled in this life must be extensions from another time and place; that when we forge such an immediate bond with another, it's possible that it might be a continuum and perhaps carry over from outside the present.
There are some people and certain animals with whom we resonate on a very deep level. Some stay a lifetime; others pass on through our lives more easily. Many folks think we reincarnate with the same group of souls many times over. That we do so to learn valuable lessons from each other. If that is the case, then why can't animals serve in that same capacity? Perhaps their souls have traveled many lifetimes with us on earth, or elsewhere. It makes sense. We living creatures are energy at our essence. And energy can be transformed at free will. What if my guardian horse Abba—his soul energy—had not been just an animal comrade, but my father, in another life? Or my grandmother? It certainly is worth giving a second thought to such possibilities.
This story of Abba is not just about him—rather my awakenings that have gone untold. And this writing not only honors Abba, but sorts out and processes where my mind and soul might have been.
Passages
My Abba was not a world-renowned horse. At least not yet. He is not in the horsey hall of fame as were Man o’ War or Seabiscuit. But in my world he wore blue in all his apparel. And in honor of Abba I wore purple, the color of royalty, on his day of physical death. Ab's first blanket, which was given to me for him, was blue—a sort of plaid like a Scotsman might wear. It had little red and brown lines that crisscrossed, making a plaid pattern. But predominantly the backdrop of Abba's blanket was a nice bright blue. It fit him perfectly, and although I have many blankets, that was our favorite one. Fuzzy and cozy on the inside, Abba proudly sported a plaid coat on his outside. Now even that blanket gives me great pause, leading me to wonder whether our clothes are carryovers from pilgrimages past where we might have amassed an affinity for certain colors. Amazing isn't it? How one mind such as mine can speculate that every thread of our life tapestry may be woven together, perhaps seeded by other karmic lifetimes. Intriguing thought really. Often my otherworldly thoughts leave me with more questions than answers.
Abba wore his cozy blanket into his final slumber along with his halter. John, his vet, asked if he should remove it and acted to do so. But I stopped him, saying, “No, please don't. Abba will wear his things into his grave." With Ab too rides his bridle with a headband in blue. In fact his saddle pad and other accessories were all blue. So fitting was this color of spirit for a horse of such great spirit.
I did not put Abba's full bridle in his grave. I wanted his bit. He wore one bit his whole life. It is the kindest, gentlest, softest bit that one can use on a horse. One that held a kind hand linked to a great heart. It is called a “rubber egg butt snaffle.” And it is still useful, but no one else will use it, because it has become a trophy and reminder of our passage together.
Return to Me
When I was pregnant with my firstborn, in my final months, a neighboring farm offered to let me keep Abba there for the summer to graze. I thought he would love it. Already well fenced, with grass standing knee deep, a natural pond, and trees for shade, it was the perfect horse heaven. Plus I could see my buddy from our backyard, and from a back bedroom window.
This pasture place adjoined the opposite side of our adjacent neighbor’s property. Abba was only two properties away. Although the main driving access was from down another road, I could walk over across our neighbor’s land to see him at the fence. They even said I could put in a direct gate if I wanted. It was perfect paradise for any horse. But my Abba was not just any horse.
I took my equine over and introduced him to his new digs and after a bit sat on my friend's porch and watched him graze peacefully. In this pasture all to himself, it appeared faultless. It held everything that he wanted. Or so I thought. Abba was a very independent being; even when part of a herd, he would be off by himself. Yes, he enjoyed the company of others, but he rather liked being the only child. When other visiting horses came to our barn on occasion, he invited them in, but was more than glad when they went home. He rather liked this solitude. That lasted for a long time. That was before his buddy JD came to stay. Then they were inseparable.
I soon found my conversation winding down, and Lynn my neighbor said if anything came up she would let me know. She was only too happy to see a horse graze her field down. I love to see my horses out in open pastures. There is nothing that soothes my soul more—indeed, if it happened that I could no longer ride, just watching them graze freely would be just fine with me.
Not twenty minutes had passed since I got home. I was in the back bedroom and heard scurrying at the door. Lynn was on my front porch out of breath. She said that after I’d left, there had been quite a commotion. My Abba had gone berserk. My Abba? Yes, she said pointing to him. He was now outside, standing peacefully under my front-lawn tree. “Yes,” Lynn said in incredulous wonder. We gazed upon him—happy, content, with almost a grin on his face, swishing his tail, resting a foot as if he had been there for hours. Then Lynn told her tale.
As soon as Abba had found my voice and my presence gone from her yard, he had picked up and run along Lynn’s fence line looking alarmed. The more he had looked and didn't see me, the more Abba had panicked. He stammered and stomped and broke down the gate. Then took off at lightning speed down their road as if late for supper. In shock at his transformation, Lynn was not sure what to do. But she followed him home, staying close behind. That is, she ran after him—but of course she was no match for his speed.
Once down our driveway back at home, Abba rested peacefully. Lynn observed, and then told me that Abba must really love me, and that it was obvious to her that Abba did not want to be left anywhere without me. And here I was, thinking all along that I was doing Ab a favor by giving him a perfect summer home. But that day he told me where his home and heart really were. When it had come time for me to leave, Abba had decisively packed up too. And he had run like the dickens all the way home. I guess you might say that he ran for the love of me!
Time is Relative
Abba had plenty of life and spirit way into his old age. I even rode him up until six months prior! Age is relative and Ab proved that. Into his late twenties and early thirties, he still ran like the wind and could outrun JD. Now JD is very fast, but Quarter horses are short-distance runners. Ab never looked like an old horse; indeed, he had all his own teeth but one when he passed. When I told inquiring horse folks his age they would re-ask with, “Are you sure?”
Like Ab, for my years I've held my age well too. I just ran into another longtime friend last week—hadn't seen her in a couple years, maybe more. When she saw me, she said, “No fair. Jeez,
you always look the same. You never get old!” There are secrets in aging: stay simple, be natural, learn continuously, don't overburden yourself, and listen to others. That's how you learn. It is so important to be present for another soul’s moment and to stay in the moment.
During Ab's final year, I knew it would be his final year. My intentions were to put Abba down before winter. I did not want him cold, or have him lose weight, or go through the worse of our northwest winters. But this winter was different. It was mild. Except for one brief cold streak, it had been a warm winter. The horses not only knew it, but also showed it. None of their fur coats were very long this year. I fretted all last fall on the when of Abba's time—until I stopped to listen. In a calm moment, standing by his side, Ab's spirit told me that he would tell me exactly when, in the appropriate time and place. After that I did not struggle with the when, why or how.