The wild pony

That morning started with a broom, a saddle, and a dead horse. I arrived at my usual time and I got to work. I'm supposed to clean the stalls in the stable. A tough job really, it takes about 10 minutes to finish and the mice really make themselves at home. My pick throws the mice in the air creating a harmony of squeaks and yowls. My nose stings like when you smell harsh chemicals and it takes over your senses of smell. The hay and dust just coat my throat making it hard to catch a breath. No amount of water will cure my unquenchable thirst. 

  I get up to one of my last assigned stalls, the metal plaque looks a minute away from dissolving into dust. I’m sure it was once silver but it’s now an orange red color. A girl of which I work with comes up behind me. “It’s so sad isn’t it.” She says. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but I still replied, “ Yeah.” Murphy lays on the floor peacefully, in the deepest sleep I’ve ever seen. “ I feel so bad for him.” She states. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Well he’s dead you know.” I did not know that. “Oh.” I replied quickly. She walks away and I look at him through the iron gates of the door. He looks very still and tranquil. I feel solem staring at him. Just a week ago he galloped through the extensive paddocks, chomping on fresh hay for hours. He have cushing's disease. It’s a disease found mostly in horses that is usually lethal. He seemed fine not too long ago. I think back to all the crazy times we had with him. He would escape and buck and buck until we just let him be. He had always been known as the wildest horse there. 

  I hear a loud beep. It’s a truck. A big black truck with a trailer on the back. I look at the back of the grimy truck in the trailer. I gasp. This truck picks up horses who have passed away and it looks as if it has already made a few stops. Then the other girls working there and I go to him and say goodbye. I think of how long of a life he’s had, 44 years old. His curly forelock and mangy tail. His crazy eyes were always opened wide, but they were now closed. We step away and watch them attach him to a chain and reel him into the truck. Our trainer tells us to look away, but we all stare in amazement because it was hard to believe he was gone. Just one day prior he had a stroke in the middle of a lesson, a terrible way to die. I think of the long life he had and all the mischief he caused. He trampled children, escaped to the feed room, and chewed on his door. The truck is loaded and it starts to leave. The only thing that remains of Murphy with us is a strip of his mane. It’s long, thin, and unevenly cut. 

  Later my dad comes to pick me up and on the way home I think. Before long my mind is jolting with the regret of what I didn’t do, I start to think about other times in my life when I felt this way. I think of how I could have appreciated the time we had together more. I think of how he really wasn’t crazy, he was just not appreciated. I think of how I wish I could have said goodbye. I think about what I’ve learned from this experience and how I could prevent myself from ever feeling this way again. I think about how I will never take anything or anyone for granted.