He was only 7 hands, about 28 inches, at the withers, but that was the only thing small about him. Rooster had a personality big enough to fill a Clydesdale.
I’ve learned valuable lessons from all my horses, but Rooster taught me some of the biggest.
He arrived with his little buddy, Gus in 2012. The reaction from my mare, Roxy, was one of horror. “What are these tiny interlopers? Are they actual horses or some sort of alien creature?” she seemed to be saying. I think she wanted to kill them first…and then decide if they could stay. That initial time was quite comical. I knew they’d made their peace when I saw them standing side-by-side in the run-in shed only 3 weeks later.
When Isaac arrived standing 16.3 hands tall (69” at the withers), Rooster wasn’t bothered. He poked and teased Isaac and the two of them had a blast playing “bitey face.” I still laugh when I think about the day Isaac decided he was a cutting horse and Rooster was a cow. Isaac’s slow motion “chasing” was a stark contrast to Rooster’s short legs scampering as fast as they could go.
As full of himself as he was with horses, when it came to people, Rooster didn’t believe they had anything to offer and he was happy to stay away. He had a low threshold for deceit that caused me to look honestly at myself and only offer my best if I hoped for a connection that went both ways. Gaining each other’s trust was a meaningful step for both of us.
Rooster died tragically and suddenly a couple of years ago. His death stunned me.
I wonder about the space that grief occupies.
Is it empty? Does it fill up? With what?
I felt nothing for a few hours, blessedly distracted by decisions that needed to be made.
I’d done death like this before–being afraid that if I let myself really feel, I’d be swallowed up. I didn’t want to do it again. It felt dishonoring. (I notice my jaw tightening as I write this.)
So I let myself cry and cry. I went out many times to snuggle with his body and cry until I was done. Gus, the buddy he arrived with, stood close to him for a while. The rest of the herd stayed nearby.
I cut a piece of his tail as a keepsake and bawled even more. Grief and sadness took up *all* the space.
Heavy.
Dripping.
As the days and weeks passed, I still allowed myself to cry. It came in waves, but they were fewer and further between.
I still profoundly miss that larger-than-life little guy with the rock star mane. He was an incredible teacher–and even a healer–of me and so many clients.
There’s a place in my body where I feel him the most. It’s more in my solar plexus than my heart. It’s about the size of a really big grapefruit. Solid and a little bit squishy. And it’s orange.
That place used to feel cavernous and empty, but now it feels full.
This is Day 6 in the series Exploring Space: Too Much, Too Little, The Right Amount
