06/03/2026
The Quality Of Their Death
For context, I write two newsletters a week that are meant to inform and connect. If you are interested, I'll add a link in the comments where you can sign up. This was yesterday's piece, and while it's a hard conversation, it's worth having sooner rather than later.
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A note before we begin: thank you for the grace last week. I didn’t post or send the newsletters, and I’m not going to pretend it was a scheduling decision — I was carrying something personal and I gave myself permission to set the work down. This is that something.
In light of it, this week is given over to a subject most of us would rather leave closed: death, euthanasia, and the planning that makes both of them kinder. It is as much a part of horse ownership as anything I have ever written about. This one is hard.
It also matters.
This past Tuesday, we humanely euthanized Ruthie. It had become clear on Sunday that her pain could no longer be managed, and that the time had come to make the hard decision I had promised her I would make.
Ruthie came to me last July, and I knew the deal when I brought her home. The people before me had already considered putting her down by the time I met her, but I believed I could manage her pain and give her as good a life as she could have for a little longer. I remember driving out to look at her and thinking this was the absolute worst possible timing — I had just left my corporate job, I had no real income coming in, and I was starting a business while supporting myself entirely on my retirement savings. None of it made sense on paper, and yet somewhere on that drive a quiet voice told me, plainly, “This is the work” — so I said yes.
When I walked out to meet her, Ruthie came straight up to me and pressed her head into my chest, and I just knew. I promised her then and there that I would do everything I could to keep her comfortable, and that I would hold to that right up until the day she told me she was ready to go. On Tuesday morning, when she came in for her breakfast, she didn’t walk down the aisle to her stall and her food the way she always did — she walked straight to me and pressed her head into my chest again. She was telling me she was done… and so I let her go.
I want to walk you through how that Tuesday went, because I think the details are the whole point — not because my way is the only way, but because a death you have planned for is a profoundly different thing than a death you are scrambling through. I have spent decades in rescue work and made more final decisions than I would like to count, and if there is one thing I can hand you, it is this: the time to learn how to do this well is not in the middle of doing it.
The Responsibility We Don't Talk About
Horse ownership is an enormous responsibility, and a long one. Horses aren’t easily rehomed. They live twenty, thirty years. We take that on knowing we are signing up for caring for their quality of life — the feed, the feet, the vet, the training, the daily practices that I write about here every week.
Here is the part we shy away from discussing: the quality of their death is part of the same contract. We can’t always control how a horse dies but where we can influence it — and that is far more than most people realize — I believe we are responsible for the quality of that passing. The way you influence it is almost never in the moment… it’s in the planning you do long before the day arrives.
You Can Usually Read It Coming
Ruthie had a history of laminitis, among other issues. This resulted in permanent internal structural damage to her hooves. About a week before she died, I was standing with my student and I pointed at one of her hind feet. The hoof had begun growing in concave, because it was no longer supporting healthy growth from the inside out. I told my student plainly: that foot is what’s going to take her. Less than a week later, she walked in lame.
I tell you that not to sound prescient, but because it’s the most important practical truth I know about this: with horses, you can usually see it coming, if you’re willing to look. Horses are prey animals. They are built to hide weakness, because in the wild a visibly compromised animal is a dead one. By the time a horse is obviously suffering, they have very often been quietly enduring for a long time. This is why objective pain assessment matters so much, and why tools like the validated Horse Grimace Scale exist — because our horses will not reliably tell us with drama. They tell us in small, readable signs, and our job is to learn to read them before the situation becomes an emergency.
Let Them Go On A Good Day
Here is something nobody warns you about. After you’ve made the decision, they may rally. Ruthie did — she looked better on Monday. That is one of the cruelest moments in this whole process, because the doubt comes flooding in: did I get it wrong? Decline and death are not linear. A good day does not mean you made the wrong call. It does not mean you have to go back on it, and it does not mean you have to rush forward, either. It simply means you’ve been given a good day — and the gift inside that is the chance to let them leave on one, rather than waiting for the unmistakable bad day that will come.
Comfort First, And Her Choice
Once the timeline is short, the rules change. Ruthie was already on daily firocoxib and on Sunday I added phenylbutazone (bute) on top of it for breakthrough pain. Normally, stacking NSAIDs like that is something we’re careful about, because of the long-term cost to the gut, the kidneys, the liver but we were no longer protecting her for the long term. There was no long term left to protect. The only job left was her comfort, right now, and so I gave her everything that would help.
Then I offered her a choice: I could keep her in a quiet, grassy paddock by herself or she could go out with the herd. She wanted the herd. I am a deep believer in quality of life and agency wherever it’s possible, so I let her go be with her friends.
I could let her, and this is a consideration, because of my specific herd. It’s a settled group. There’s very little animosity, and no real maliciousness. And my mustang gelding, Wick, is a genuinely fair and protective leader — he steps in if anyone is getting picked on… I love him for it… so I wasn’t worried about Ruthie getting hurt out there in her last days. That’s not a blanket rule for every barn; it’s a read of mine. The principle that travels is this: a herd animal’s psychological safety is part of their welfare, right up to the end. Research on social isolation in horses bears out how poorly they tolerate being cut off from the herd so if your herd dynamics make company safe, that is a kindness. If they don’t, a calm, secure spot near — but protected from — the others may be the safer version of the same goal.
The Coordination Nobody Prepares You For
On Monday, I reached out to the veterinarian who had previously owned Ruthie and told her it was time and I started arranging body transport.
I have buried animals on my own property before but I’ve found I’m not personally attached to the body once they’re gone and I now prefer to have the body removed. That is a personal choice, and both are legitimate — I’ll come back to the practical side of it below… but what I want to walk you through here is the logistics, because this is the piece that blindsides people.
You are coordinating two independent professional schedules under a tight clock: the veterinarian, and the body-removal service. In my case, it was the Tuesday right after a holiday weekend, and the vet was slammed — appointments already stacked. The woman who could remove the body had plans of her own after 1:00 PM so the whole day came down to a tight window of time.
The math of that morning: Either it happened Tuesday morning, and both could be there — or it happened Tuesday afternoon, the transporter couldn’t come, and Ruthie’s body would have to stay where it lay until Friday — or we waited and did the whole thing Friday, which meant Ruthie waited days to be put to rest. I became the switchboard between the vet and the transporter, relaying one’s window to the other, and hoping everyone could make it happen. I was incredibly fortunate: the vet completely rearranged her schedule and was out late morning.
Most veterinary teams I’ve met will move mountains to spare your horse a painful wait but you cannot count on it. You can only count on the plan you made and the calls you placed before the clock started.
The Best Last Day
I gave her the best last day I could, and I engineered it on purpose.
Ruthie loved watermelon so I cut up a whole one and my student came out with her children who we fed her alllllll the watermelon she wanted. I made her an enormous tub of Root Revival with floating ice cubes and watermelon in it, and she drank. We put her in a grassy paddock and I set flakes of hay all the way around the fencing perimeter so the herd would stay close and graze near her. When they wandered off, she would get anxious so keeping them anchored nearby meant her last hours weren’t spent in low-grade panic about being left behind. That’s not sentiment. That’s welfare. It’s the difference between a peaceful passing and a frightened one.
I had already chosen the spot. This is genuinely practical: a body-removal truck and trailer needs room to maneuver and back up. You do not want this happening in a stall or a tight corner. You want open ground. I have a turnaround in front of the barn and chose a spot under a tree — shade, room for the equipment, and within eyeshot of the grassy paddock, so that when the time came I could open the gate and let the herd come to her.
The Moment Itself - Let The Professionals Run It
When the vet and her tech arrived, I let them take over. I want to be clear about why, because this matters for your safety and your horse’s.
First comes sedation. It is not instant. People picture the vet arriving and the horse simply lying down — that is not how it goes. The sedative takes a little time to settle, and only then comes the second stage: the drugs that stop the heart. At that point the horse goes down, and it can be sudden and heavy. That is the moment to stand completely clear, no matter how much every cell in your body wants to be holding them. A thousand-plus pounds losing motor control all at once is unpredictable. Standing clear is not coldness — it is how we keep everyone safe in that moment: your horse, the vet, the tech, and you. They will tell you when she’s safely down and you can come say goodbye.
And sometimes it isn’t peaceful, through no one’s fault. A young, strong horse — or any horse flooded with adrenaline from a catastrophic injury — can physically fight the sedative. If that happens, it is not the vet’s failure. It’s the panic and the adrenaline in your horse’s own body resisting the drugs. It is hard to witness, and it stays with you. It is one more reason I worked so hard to keep Ruthie calm and the herd close: a horse who goes into it peaceful tends to go quickly. Ruthie did.
I should be honest that it does not always go like Ruthie’s. After 18 years together, my first childhood horse broke her leg, and the vet initially misdiagnosed it. She was on that leg another twenty-four hours before I found her down again and called them back out. It was horrifying. I carry it still. I’m telling you because the goal of all this planning isn’t to guarantee a gentle death. It’s to give yourself the best possible chance at one — and the resources to act fast when that isn’t available.
Letting Them Say Goodbye
After Ruthie was gone and pronounced, the vet and my student left. I closed the gate to the property, opened the gate to the paddock, and let the whole herd come out to her.
I can’t hand you a peer-reviewed study proving that this prevents grief or searching. What I can tell you is what I have watched, every single time, and what I watched that day.
Tae, my two-year-old Irish Sport Horse, went over first. He sniffed her face, sniffed her nose, wiggled her ear with his lip — and then he understood she was gone, and he walked away. Reacher came out and, frankly, her body spooked him; he took off running, and that’s okay. That’s allowed. Wick and Lorilei, my two mustangs, approached slowly. They grazed around her body, getting closer and closer, until each of them stepped up and breathed into her nose. They acknowledged it, and they left.
Then I put the horses up and brought the dogs out separately — My dogs consider themselves part of the herd; Nandi has spent her life trying to bond with them. They needed their goodbye too. They sniffed her all over and licked her a little. And Nandi — who Ruthie would never, ever permit to lick her in life, always laying her ears back and swinging her head — finally got to lick her. Then she simply stopped, and went back to the house.
Give the people who loved your horse the same chance, if they want it. It’s your call, but I think it’s a kindness to let those who were close come and say goodbye — ahead of time, not necessarily for the moment itself.
For Ruthie
When her body was ready to be moved, the transporter came with her truck and trailer, and I went inside. I’d advise the same to you: don’t watch this part. Watching an animal be winched onto a trailer can be deeply traumatic, especially when it’s yours. There is nothing to be gained by witnessing it. They have a job to do. My practice is to say thank you, pay the bill, and be gone.
Every person who showed up that day — the vet, the tech, the transporter, my student — was an absolute rock star when I needed one. I have profound appreciation for people who do this work with that much care.
This week is for Ruthie. The full post includes the practical, medical, and legal material — the reference desk, kept separate on purpose so you can come back to it when you’re planning. None of it is pleasant. All of it is easier to know now than to learn later.
And on Saturday, The Barn Aisle newsletter turns to the other half of this: how you care for yourself when the plan is done and the grief is all that’s left.
