by Martha McNiel, LMFT

To completely trust those who are trustworthy is a priceless gift. To be trusted completely by another is an honor. It is a priceless gift to be able to rest in an extremely difficult decision-making process, confident that the guidance and counsel being provided is accurate, trustworthy and only has the best interests of the other in mind. It is an honor and incredible privilege to know that another is trusting you completely with decisions of life and death, illness and health, comfort and pain.

eight months, she fought a valiant fight. Her two front feet died. With skilled veterinary care and amazing self-care, she grew two beautiful, completely new front feet. She survived infections, major abscesses and numerous setbacks with a brave and willing heart.

I cannot imagine attempting a long-term, complicated recovery and healing process like we attempted with Starbright, without absolute, complete confidence in the professional skill and personal integrity of the veterinary team. My trust in the veterinary team developed over time, as I saw unwavering evidence of their medical skill and personal commitment to Starbright's recovery.

As the months passed, my emotional and financial commitment to Starbright deepened and I sensed the vets' did, too. We shared a profound respect and admiration for the brave and playful Starbright. We grew to deeply appreciate her mischievous mind and her courageous heart.

It was about 10:30 p.m. on April 1, 2009 and I was driving south on highway 101, on my way home from a long day of work in San Francisco. Driving down a dark stretch of freeway, my cell phone lit up in the night. It was the call I had been waiting for, from Dr. William Seals, D.V.M. He was calling to tell me about Starbright's X-rays and her prognosis.

Bill's voice on the phone was solemn and grave. Earlier in the day Dr. Ann Wimmer, D.V.M. had called to tell me they had found a fracture on Starbright's radiographs and the reason she was so sore was because she was walking on a broken leg. I was heartsick. Ann and Bill both talked with me on the phone and said this is very serious, and we may put her down tomorrow.

I was devastated. I had cried the entire day. At lunch, I drove out to Ocean Beach and sobbed in my car. In my office, I cried between clients. I was so disappointed and so devastated. It was so not fair! After all that mare has been through, and all she has endured, with such a good attitude and strong spirit, it was so not fair to put her down for a fracture, after her feet had grown back so beautifully.

decided the only right thing to do was to put her down. I cried and cried, but decided that was the correct decision, in order to be fair to her.

Early the next morning I met Bill at the barn and told him I had decided to put her down. He looked at me with surprise and said, "Why? Is she having a bad day?" I explained that she was not eating, and I didn't think it was fair to ask her to keep going. At that moment, as we were talking about her and watching her, the oppositional little mare hopped up and walked over to her feed bucket and started eating. Bill looked at me and said, "I'm making the decision today, and you are not putting her down today!"

So when the conversation in her stall happened on the afternoon of April 9, one week after the successful surgery, I already had a history of trust with Ann and Bill. I had decided months earlier to place my trust and Starbright's trust in the care of the Tri-County veterinary team. We were so far out of my realm of knowledge and experience that seemed like the wisest thing to do, to trust the one who had been the farthest with this kind of problem.

I waited most of the day in Starbright's stall, feeding her alfalfa and grooming her, while we waited for the radiographs to be emailed to the consulting surgeon. Because of a widespread phone and internet outage in the area, it took most of the day for the email to go through. After Bill spoke with the surgeon on the phone, he came to her stall and looked incredibly tired and sad. He shook his head "No" and said something like, "There's nothing to be done. The bone chip makes it impossible for the leg to stabilize. There's nothing to be done. Dave said the leg can never be stable again. We need to let her go." I could tell from his facial expression, before he said a word, that this was going to be it. Ann was crying, I was crying. It was unbelievably sad. Little Starbright was such a trooper. She was so brave, so game, so willing.

She had been up and down all day, eating and walking around her stall, gobbling down alfalfa and checking out the other horses and the sounds of the barn. I brushed her beautiful coat until it glistened in the sun. She looked better on the day she died than she had in the previous three years.

blow. For so long I had not believed that she would make it. I held onto my hope tightly and didn't get my hopes up. But her feet looked so good! They had grown back beautifully. The hoof walls were strong and solid. The circulation was great. Her internal organs were functioning very well. Her coat was shiny and beautiful.

When I saw the progress she was making and how beautiful her new feet were, I began to believe she was going to actually make it. My hope increased along with the length of the new hoof wall. So I was crushed when the fracture appeared on the X-rays.

When Bill shook his head "No" and said, "There's nothing left to be done," I was indescribably disappointed. And yet, I trusted his decision. I knew that if there were any stone left to look under, he and Ann would already be on their hands and knees looking there.

Starbright
Starbright and I had spent many nights together in the deep shavings of her stall, Starbright lying stretched out, with her head in my lap. She would sigh and relax into my legs and I would stroke her beautiful neck. We kept each other warm in the cold night air as we talked and listened to each other while the other horses nodded off and the coyotes hunted in the fields next door.

I remember one special night when Cali the barn cat decided to join Starbright and me in our nightly communion. I was sitting in the shavings close to Starbright, as I usually did. She raised her head up and looked at the cat. At that moment Cali came over to me and jumped into my lap, which was her usual place to sit. Only problem was, there was not enough room for both a cat and a horse head in my lap, at the same time. I spread my legs very slightly and made a little room for Cali to sink down into the shavings, nestled between my knees. At that moment, Stabright let out a big sigh and laid her head in my lap, right on top of the cat. Fearing that Cali would be squished or scratch Starbright's face, I gave her a little more room. Cali began to purr very loudly as Starbright sighed. Cali was under Starbright's face, purring like a diesel truck. It was a moment of tranquility and peace in the barn. The little calico cat purring as loudly as she could, into the ear of the little pony whose face had her pinned in my lap. I made a mental bookmark, wanting to capture that moment of peace and trust, when time was suspended in the barn.

I believe Starbright trusted me completely. I could give her meds and injections while she was lying down. She wouldn't bother to get up, unless she was also hungry and wanted to eat. She would go anywhere I asked her to go.

I did my best to honor her trust. Many times the vets and I talked. We agreed that, "When she quits, we quit." Other people had no idea how I agonized over decisions about Starbright, desperately wanting to do the right thing for her. During a phone call a few days after she died, Bill said to me, "You and I both know that she was not ready to go." She wasn't ready, but with no hope for recovery, that was the only loving thing to do.

Until then, I am left with precious, precious memories of an oppositional pony who trusted me with her life. And heartfelt gratitude for the veterinary team who honored my trust.