My mom and stepdad lived out in the country between Hutto and Taylor before they emigrated to Canada. They had horses, dogs, a donkey named Jackson and a rabbit. While they were frequently traveling back and forth between TX and British Columbia preparing for the move, my sister and I would help with the beasts.
One of the horses was my stepdad’s beloved strawberry roan named Deuce and he was pushing 30. A few weeks before one of their trips, Deuce had a time of "general unwellness" but seemed to perk up, so all systems were go. As my sister coordinated our animal feeding schedule with Mom, she let this gem slip: “That horse had better not die on my day!”
Well…one can see where this is going. We switched off minding the zoo for a few days and then one evening after work as she swung open the gate and started down the ¼ mile road to their house, something was definitely wrong. Deuce was down on his side as close to the house as the fence would allow and clearly not well. There was an immediate flurry of calls to me, to the vet and to Mom and Donald’s obviously unoccupied hotel room. This was before eveyone carried a cell and they were totally incommunicado.
He stared up at her helplessly and she was heartbroken and panicked. Finally, near dusk, the vet pulled up in his truck with all manner of supplies and told her what she already knew – that she had to let the big guy go and that if it made it any easier for her, he thought the knowing animal probably waited until Donald was gone to take leave.
I finally drove up just as the vet was leaving. By then it was dark and here we are at night, in the country with an obvious problem on our hands. We're girls who have lived in the city much too long to deal with this. Fact is, we always liked that Hank Williams Jr song about Country Boys because my dad made sure that we too could skin a deer, shoot a rifle, run a trot line, and start a fire. But nowhere in that song or our experience was there any instruction on what to do about a dead horse in your mom’s yard.
What ensued was equal parts hysteria and sound decision making. As I recall, I think we probably covered him, but I can't totally remember. I know vultures were an overriding concern. We called the vet back and asked for advice "What, in your experience, have people generally done in this situation?" He had nothing to offer. Well, this may have been Texas pasture, but 13 acres was no King Ranch and just leaving the animal out in the open was not an option. For many reasons, but number one that this was a member of the family, the die was cast. There would be a graveside service.
It was clear that we couldn't dig 6 inches, let alone 6 feet so I took charge of finding and hiring a Bobcat operator (for the tidy sum of $400) to come out and play undertaker. My sister used her lunch hour for the Callahan's errand and said they were obviously very concerned about why this pushy lady in a power suit was in their feedstore shopping for lime. (Was she plotting to kill an errant husband - would she kill them if they inquired?) She stopped by HEB on the way out of town for a basket of mums and we met the Bobcat owner to discuss the prime location.
It didn't take long at all to dig. He tied the lead rope around the horse's feet and pulled the big fella into his resting spot near the barn - a little deeper than the typical 6 feet - and covered him. We stuck the flowers down in the dirt and the donkey climbed up to the top of the mound and ate all of the mums so that there were only what amounted to a bunch of sticks left poking up. (He sadly stood on top of the mound for weeks afterward.) After a little prayer and leaving a small braid of Deuce's mane on the kitchen island, we drove down the road, got out to secure the main gate, had a Wonder Twins Activate moment and made a mad dash for the suburbs.
I frequently tell my kids, "Keep it up! And see where that gets you." 
My mom and stepdad lived out in the country between Hutto and Taylor before they emigrated to Canada. They had horses, dogs, a donkey named Jackson and a rabbit. While they were frequently traveling back and forth between TX and British Columbia preparing for the move, my sister and I would help with the beasts.
I have two rather obsessive thoughts lately. One is whether or not a change in juice drinking habits could signal Type 1 or DKA. My daughter went from never drinking juice to specifically insisting that I buy it and drinking a up to a 1/2 gallon or more in a single day in the couple of weeks leading to her diagnosis. She specifically wanted juice, not necessarily water. This article caught my attention because Ray Allen's baby was also specifically asking for juice and it wasn't typical. I've heard this anecdote several different times. I wonder if it is truly a warning sign, in addition to general thirst. Warning signs are so important and maybe a caregiver seeing "one more" on the list would be prompted to quicker action.
Buffett tickets on sale tomorrow and Pitchers/Catchers next week. Yep - Spring's gotta be around the corner.
My company is embracing all forms of social media. So keeping an eye on Twitter along with email is not a crime. It’s great to see in real time what is interesting to industry analysts, journalists, and all-around technologists and have a new way to connect with them. And of course, I also follow a few in the online diabetes crowd. Six Until Me has been my number one go-to blog for smart, funny diabetes commentary with some real life (and New England life at that!) thrown in and her Twitter chat is equally entertaining and informative.
With Pittsburgh and Punxsutawney dominating today's sports and "Dear-God-When-Will-Spring-Get-Here?" news, I for one am happy to see the calendar flip to February because that means Truck Day's coming.
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