Free Horse
Photo by Unsplash
Every horse we’ve owned was old and free: first Silverado, then Tulsa. When Silverado died, a neighbor gave Liz our third free horse, Amber, an Arabian mare. Tulsa and Amber were inseparable, destined to live out their lives at Cook Peak.
Tulsa was my favorite horse, though I never rode him or any of the horses we owned. My story begins here.
Tulsa's troubles began unexpectedly one summer afternoon. Shortly after a routine ride, he started limping, leading us to discover he had ringbone—his leg bone had pushed through the inside of his hoof. Despite barely being able to walk and dragging his leg behind, he kept trying to follow Amber.
With Tulsa's health declining, we called the vet for help. On a 100-degree day, Tulsa lay in the sun, unable to move for shade or water. The vet checked his heart, shook his head, and said the humane option was euthanasia. Without further action, he left, instructing us to dig a big hole and call when ready.
Alone after the vet and everyone else left, I sat beside Tulsa and cried, sharing my love and apologies. Stroking his head, I looked for his answer, as I always did with dying animals. “Are you ready to go” I asked. Tulsa quietly seemed to say it wasn’t his time yet. At that moment, I promised to do everything possible to help him, even if it meant defying the vet’s advice. Or perhaps, I couldn’t let go.
Motivated by that promise, we began nursing Tulsa back to health. Over the next several months, we studied equine health and first aid, applied treatments and supplements, sought advice from experienced rescuers, and adjusted his diet to include corn oil for weight gain and aspirin for pain relief. Even at his weakest, when his hair fell out in clumps from his skeletal frame, we continued.
Throughout Tulsa’s recovery, others doubted our efforts and questioned our choices. Even the Ferrier gave up. A passing neighbor criticized my lack of experience and accused me of cruelty. Despite this negativity, we persisted for Tulsa’s sake. We never worried about his ability to be ridden again—Cook Peak was his retirement home and there were no expectations.
Gradually, Tulsa’s health improved in ways we hardly believed possible. A year later, he would whinny for his breakfast and trot along the fence, happy to see me. The ringbone was in remission, and his brown coat shone again.
Looking back, I believe three things saved Tulsa: we refused to give up, we listened to him, and we relied on time and nature to heal.
For several years after his recovery, Tulsa thrived at Cook Peak. Then, on another hot afternoon, he developed colic. We drove him to the emergency vet in Bakersfield, where he received morphine and relief from pain. There was nothing anyone could do. He was pushing thirty.
Saying goodbye to Tulsa was wrenching. Tears blurred my vision as I met his eyes and asked one last time if he was ready to go. We both knew. I said goodbye and hugged him once more before signing the papers.
As we drove away with an empty horse trailer and a void in my heart, I couldn’t help but look back. Tulsa and the vet stood on the lush green lawn under a tree, watching us drive away. I knew that once we were out of sight, the vet would gently lay Tulsa to rest under the shade of that Mulberry tree.
There is no such thing as a “free” horse. Every horse costs, whether it is money for feed and care or emotional investment. I learned what it means to own a "free" senior horse. It means loving and taking care of them, knowing you’re their last stop on this earth, and doing it freely.
