Sunday, September 15, 2013

Not sure what to call this one

So it has been a week shy of my losing Eve. I understand about the 5 steps of grieving and it's been very hard for me to deal with all of this.  (  )

Feeling sad and knowing there will never be another mare like my mare (her sire is dead and the dam was sold) lets me realize I just can't create 'another' Eve.

This sadness is never-ending, it seems. Folks tell me that it takes "time" to get past it all. It is helping,but I Still look for her in her stall when I walk past it, I still wait to hear her whinny telling me that she's all done eating her dinner and wants to go out now, please. I used to love being in the stall with Evie...she'd sniff my shoes and face ( yes, my mare had a shoe fetish of sorts) , schnuffle thorough my hair and then search my hands for those beloved peppermints.

The Percheron mare I knew was free of abuse and fear. She was oh, so brave, and kind and gentle for all of her 2000 pounds. I used to love it when she'd see something in the distance, and raise her neck and head up to a height of 12' in the air. She made ME feel small and petite- something I am certainly not.

I had been Sooooooooooooooooo careful with Evie. She had the best foal vitamins, daily dewormer, all the sweet hay she & her mama wanted to eat. Once she'd been weaned, I delighted in watching her grow taller and more wise. Each year was wonderful- we even had a third birthday party for her. This was one foal I cherished and thoroughly enjoyed watching grow into a gorgeous tall black mare.

She had been bred to be a show horse, but sadly, I never even got to drive her..... that had been in the plans for this month ( September).

The other three Percherons are doing fine, thank goodness. Lynn has stopped calling for her pasture pal, and they've all settled into a slightly different routine. Minus one.

Time is what this takes, ehhhh?  I hope that time passes quickly and my heart can begin mending again. This grief has to be dealt with somehow.

I just don't know how .

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