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Álmos is gone
2010.06.01.

I'm driving home, can't see anything, my thoughts are wandering elsewhere. The windscreen wipers are moving at a high speed. Even the sky is crying for her, I think, with my eyes full of tears.

Álmos died.



She came to our shelter from Győr, and – despite her name, which is an ancient Hungarian name for men – she was a mare. I still could see how beautiful once she must have been – but the years of suffering and the foals she gave birth to left marks on her body. Nevertheless, she was still a beautiful old mare, with huge ears, and a star on her forehead, slowly turning gray as she got old. Her mane black as coal. Her eyes, huge, brown eyes, full of suffering and pain, as in all horses. She loved to be scratched at the withers, and she hated George, the llama – who knows, why, but she always hated him.

She had laminitis, and as the X-rays showed, not for the first time. We fought for her for long – but it was her who fought the hardest! Her self-discipline and stamina was unbeliveable. The blacksmith and the vet told us once that most horses in her condition would rage of pain even after 5 or 10 shots of painkillers – but not Álmos. She only stood there and tolerated the pain, because we asked her to, and she always did what we asked.

Her hoof problems made her a prisoner of her box – but also gave her a privileged position as we always wanted to keep her happy. She was given the most delicious stack of hay, the biggest carrots and apples. She deserved it, not only due to her illness but because it would be hard to find a horse as kind, open-hearted and friendly as she was.

I see her even now, as the windscreen wipers move in front of my eyes, wiping away the raindrops.

As she looked at us in the morning, a happy horse, her mane is full of small pieces of straw.

As she neighed when she got her portion of oats in which her medicines were mixed.

As she enjoyed the scratchings, which rather meant a massage for her than a cleaning.

Her smell that was most intensive on her mane – her smell was one in a thousand. Her body might have been inprisoned in a box but she smelled like endless pastures, playful foals and wonderful springs.

Those moments when she rested lying and I sat beside her and carressed her mane – and she never pulled her head away.

The way she hated the blanket, especially when we tightened the girths on her belly. She was never aggressive towards humans but when we put the blanket on her on the cold evenings of winter, she always bit and looked at us with such a morose expression that we had to poke her.

As she enjoyed the rare freedom on the pasture, with her legs in bandage, limping but with a clear satisfaction; as she grazed in the spring and the way she threatened George the llama with her ears pulled back.

And the last day. As she laid there, and didn't react to anything.

Her eyes.

There were times when she was worse, but even then we saw the will in her eyes.

But not now. Now it was only fatigue and pain. And the silent begging.

The vet who fought for her for months now did not offer any options. His recommendation was clear and, even though I wanted to question his proposal, I knew he was right. I understood what he said but in my head I only heard a desperate voice, repeating “no, no and no”. Álmos was always fighting. She fought even when we wanted to give up, listening to our rational minds. She fought and she was always right as she was always able to stand up and go on.

But not now.

We stood there, looking at the horse lying at our feet. I tried to hold back my tears, I know it's stupid, but I didn't want her to see me crying. Of course I couldn't, I cried when I took off the halter – where she went no halter was needed. I looked into her big brown eyes for the last time, and couldn't see clearly of my tears.

She needed a double dose, her body was extremely strong. Too weak to heal but too strong to die. I felt her heartbeats under my palm – they went faster and weaker, and then it was over.

We stood there and were looking at the body as the horse's soul left.

I stepped out in the rain, with the halter on my shoulder. It was over but it still didn't make any sense.

I drive back home blindly. Even the sky is crying for the old mare, and the windscreen wipers cannot wipe away the picture: I see Álmos, she is young again, there is no bandage on her legs, the star on her forehead is as white as snow, but I know it's her. She shakes her mane, I see the huge muscles of her neck, she moves gracefully and breathes easily. I know it must be so. I know it's her. And I know I will meet her once more somewhere, sometime.

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