As barn managers, we wear a lot of hats. The worst hat is the one we wear on the day one of your horses needs to be euthanized. See for good barn managers, we love your horse like it was one of ours. I equate it to loving a step child or an adopted child. While the horse has its own human, its owner, it also has us. We feed her, clean her, talk to her, monitor her, scratch her favorite place, attend to her injuries and care for her when she is sick. While most horse owners spend a couple hours a day, several times a week with their horse, we spend 12 hours a day with them or more.
We know all their little idiosyncrasies, quirks, moods, likes, dislikes, and routines. We spend all day in the barn with them. We change their blankets when it warms up. We do cool showers on a hot day. We apply fly spray when they start stomping bugs. We go out and reapply their fly mask when it falls off again, and straighten their blankets when they get crooked. We administer their meds, dress their wounds, wrap their legs, and assist the vet. We see them at their worst and we see them at their best.
Our job is to make them feel safe and secure. It’s our job to give them a barn that is consistent and predicable so they can be relaxed. It’s our job to worry so they don’t have to. We laugh at them when they are silly. We scold them when they are naughty. We know every facial expression they make. We know from the barn door when something isn’t right with them with one glance or whinny. We celebrate their birthdays. We celebrate their blue ribbons.
It’s also our job to end their lives with the vet. I never let a horse that has been in my care leave this world alone. They should have someone who loves them there to see them on. Most owners can’t be there for those final moments. They don’t want that to be their last memory of their beloved horse. I totally understand that. Horses don’t typically just lay down and go to sleep. It’s more like a tree falling over, hitting the ground with a thud. So that is our job too. To be there for those final moments, telling her that it is ok. It is Ok to go. That they were a really good horse, and that they are loved. That we did everything we could for them and that we will miss them everyday. It’s our job to send them off properly, kindly, decently, respectfully, and lovingly.
We do it with tears in our eyes as our hearts break yet again. We do it because it’s the right thing to do for the horse and it’s the right thing to do for the owner, even though it’s the hardest thing to do for us. We love them too.
Then we take care of the owner. We comfort them, give them a shoulder to cry on. We give them big hugs. We make sure they can get home ok. We call them to make sure they got home ok.
Then we take care of the body. We make the necessary phone calls. We wait for the truck to come to pick up the body. I can’t personally watch the body be removed because I don’t want that to be my last memory of my lost friend. I know how they do it. I hear the sound of the winch as they get the body onto the truck. I know what it would look like if I would go out there to see it. Then we clean everything up like it all never happened. We rake the drag marks up from where the body was. You see, the rest of the clients don’t want to see any of that.
Then we go back to the day to day activities of the barn. The horses that remain still need to be fed and cared for. We go back to helping young riders lift saddles. We go back to giving warm welcomes to the lesson clients as they arrive at the barn. We go back to looking at that little scratch on that persons horses hip. We go back to talking to you about your horses supplements. We go back to checking to see if your saddle is pinching your horse’s withers. We walk past that empty stall over and over again. We have one less to feed, one less to hay, one less to water, and one less to bring in.
We call the owner to check on them later in the day to see how they are doing. When it’s all said and done we clean up, put everything away and turn off the lights like it was just another day and we go home. Then we cry. Then we grieve.
We know all their little idiosyncrasies, quirks, moods, likes, dislikes, and routines. We spend all day in the barn with them. We change their blankets when it warms up. We do cool showers on a hot day. We apply fly spray when they start stomping bugs. We go out and reapply their fly mask when it falls off again, and straighten their blankets when they get crooked. We administer their meds, dress their wounds, wrap their legs, and assist the vet. We see them at their worst and we see them at their best.
Our job is to make them feel safe and secure. It’s our job to give them a barn that is consistent and predicable so they can be relaxed. It’s our job to worry so they don’t have to. We laugh at them when they are silly. We scold them when they are naughty. We know every facial expression they make. We know from the barn door when something isn’t right with them with one glance or whinny. We celebrate their birthdays. We celebrate their blue ribbons.
It’s also our job to end their lives with the vet. I never let a horse that has been in my care leave this world alone. They should have someone who loves them there to see them on. Most owners can’t be there for those final moments. They don’t want that to be their last memory of their beloved horse. I totally understand that. Horses don’t typically just lay down and go to sleep. It’s more like a tree falling over, hitting the ground with a thud. So that is our job too. To be there for those final moments, telling her that it is ok. It is Ok to go. That they were a really good horse, and that they are loved. That we did everything we could for them and that we will miss them everyday. It’s our job to send them off properly, kindly, decently, respectfully, and lovingly.
We do it with tears in our eyes as our hearts break yet again. We do it because it’s the right thing to do for the horse and it’s the right thing to do for the owner, even though it’s the hardest thing to do for us. We love them too.
Then we take care of the owner. We comfort them, give them a shoulder to cry on. We give them big hugs. We make sure they can get home ok. We call them to make sure they got home ok.
Then we take care of the body. We make the necessary phone calls. We wait for the truck to come to pick up the body. I can’t personally watch the body be removed because I don’t want that to be my last memory of my lost friend. I know how they do it. I hear the sound of the winch as they get the body onto the truck. I know what it would look like if I would go out there to see it. Then we clean everything up like it all never happened. We rake the drag marks up from where the body was. You see, the rest of the clients don’t want to see any of that.
Then we go back to the day to day activities of the barn. The horses that remain still need to be fed and cared for. We go back to helping young riders lift saddles. We go back to giving warm welcomes to the lesson clients as they arrive at the barn. We go back to looking at that little scratch on that persons horses hip. We go back to talking to you about your horses supplements. We go back to checking to see if your saddle is pinching your horse’s withers. We walk past that empty stall over and over again. We have one less to feed, one less to hay, one less to water, and one less to bring in.
We call the owner to check on them later in the day to see how they are doing. When it’s all said and done we clean up, put everything away and turn off the lights like it was just another day and we go home. Then we cry. Then we grieve.
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