“There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” ― Winston S. Churchill

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It’s taken me a month to be able to write about this. One month since I said goodbye to my quarter horse mare Ama. In February she was diagnosed with EPM, a neurological disease, that ultimately was too much for the old gal to battle.

I was so thankful I was able to be in Tennessee both after her diagnosis and the week we had to put her down. I spoiled her with all the carrots, peppermints, fresh clover and spa days as I said my goodbyes. She was loved by the whole family, and I cannot thank my mother and Roger enough for the care they took of my sweet girl throughout her retirement on the farm. I was also so grateful that when the day came to put her down, it was our trusty family vet who’s been there since I was a small child and has cared for Ama her whole life. Thank you Dr. Moss for making her transition a peaceful one.

The day it happened Tim and I sat up in the top pasture and looked out over the mountains. “How do you explain to someone what she means to you?” A question for which there was no answer. I began working with her when I was a gangly 15 year old. And she a spunky, barely green broke 2 year old.

Hours in the saddle, and in the dirt, led to too many blue ribbons to count, incredible rodeo memories, unforgettable trail rides, and the joy she brought to so many in her later years as my trusty lesson horse. I can’t tell you how many nieces and nephews, friends, family members and neighbors all swung their legs across her trusting back. It didn’t matter if you had never ridden before, or had a bad experience prior, she would carefully restore trust, and instil confidence one step at a time.

But don’t get me wrong, even with her patience and easy nature she was still a chestnut mare. And in her earlier days she tested and grew me so much as a trainer and a rider. One memorable experience when she was a 3 year old, we were practicing flying lead changes in the neighbors arena and she was doing beautifully. In front of 20+ friends and completely out of the blue she decided I asked for one change too many and with a spectacular buck landed me on my backside in the center of the ring while she galloped, tail flagging, over the hill and back to her pasture. I marched with wounded pride and bum all the way over the ridge to find her standing placidly at the gate sniffing her brother’s nose and I’m sure retelling the story with a certain amount of glee. I mounted with a few choice words, and galloped the whole way back, where we did several more changes much to her annoyance. And she and I both knew she had done it just to prove she could.

Her name was always a funny one, Ama, shortened from her registered name of I Ama Special. Her dam was I Like ‘Em Special, a racing quarter horse that could move, a trait she passed to her daughter. Galloping through open pastures, wind whipping through her mane and my hair, the steady rhythm of breaths and hooves, with the bright southern sun beating down, will stay with me always.

I’ve said goodbye to family pets before, and shed my fair share of tears, but losing her wrecked me in a way I wasn’t ready for. If I’m honest it’s because in many ways, she was a sure and comforting tether to my dad. My dad, who always supported my horse obsession, who showed up to so many shows and rodeos, tightened my girth and shined my boots. My dad who surprised me on my 16th birthday with Ama’s registration wrapped up among my gifts. It took me a minute to get it, this sassy girl who I’d been training the past year, was now mine, and I was hers.

My dad who always dreamed of a farm and land, and who after giving me Ama found and bought our family farm, with plenty of room for horses. In fact my mom and I were discussing how, in many ways, we owe our family farm to Ama, as the driving motivation for land, this gathering spot and special place of so many memories. A spot where our family has grown, and built, fences, barns, and gardens. I told her that in a very real way, she’s the reason why we have this spot of heaven here in the Shenandoah Valley too. We searched for a property with enough room for her and the hope to build our little herd.

So while she never birthed a filly or colt, instead she delivered something far greater, to me; two homes. Two farms that hold such memories, beauty, promise, and sanctuary. For that gift, I’ll be forever grateful.

Rest in peace old girl.