By Christina Kennedy

Last week, a champion horse was euthanized – Barbaro, the 2006 Kentucky Derby winner.

Barbaro had captured the interest and imagination of the public, even that of people who may have never watched a race nor seen a horse close by. He was a magnificent Thoroughbred who suffered a spectacular injury on the race track, right before the eyes of the Pimlico spectators and millions of television viewers. He then underwent numerous difficult surgeries and months of rehabilitation.

But all of these newsworthy vicissitudes were not what captivated so many people, what prompted letters and cards and gifts to be sent to the veterinary hospital in Pennsylvania where he was cared for since the accident. It was his spirit, his will to live, his acceptance of splints and wraps on his legs, of being confined in a stall – he who could sprint out of the starting box with the wind on his mane, and overtake and pass all the other horses in an easy and fluid gallop, while the crowd stood on their feet acknowledging the marks of a true champion.

There was also the devotion of his owners, who disregarded financial considerations in order to give Barbaro every possible chance of recovery. One could argue that a colt worth one million dollars certainly warrants extreme measures to save his life, because the stud fees alone would amply compensate for the expenditures.

However, I prefer to take the more credulous approach. From what I could garner from watching television interviews with the owners and reading the newspapers, I sense that these people truly loved their horse, that his personality was such that he deserved the chances he was afforded.

But in the end even Barbaro’s resilience succumbed to fatal complications in his recovery. There were no more options left.

All of us who have deeply loved a horse, or a dog, or any pet, and came to the parting moment, probably recognized ourselves in the somber and pained faces of Barbaro’s owners and his veterinarian during the television announcement of the decision to euthanize.

They said, “It was the right thing to do.”

Last year I too reached the day when I had to decide if it was “the right thing to do” for my own horse Trooper. He was no Barbaro – just an old quarter horse who had served me well and faithfully for 15 years, but he was no less loved nor less valuable to me than Barbaro to his owners.

In consultation with Dr Ned Schankman, it was decided that Trooper’s quality of life had declined irrevocably.

Dr. Schankman said, “It is time.”

I cannot help but drawing a comparison between the usually controlled Dr Schankman and Barbaro’s Dr Richardson who almost broke down in tears during his news conference. Ned Schankman had cared for Trooper for the horse’s entire 15 years with me and knew the bond that existed between us, and the valiant efforts that I had expended in stemming his illness. Ned was also close to tears.

You never let go easily of a breathing, living creature, even if he is not human. And you are not ashamed to weep when you hold the large head of your horse in your arms for the last time, and adjust his mane, and touch his velvety ears, and your mind relives the time when he was young and healthy and he knew your soul and you knew his.

So I’m writing for all the horse people who at one time or another had to say farewell.

This is for Trooper and for Barbaro, and for all his less famous brothers and sisters who humbly submitted to the bit, and in the final moment accepted their fate with tranquil courage. They enriched our life, they taught us respect for nature, discipline and endurance.

May you all meet and canter together in green pastures under the sun.