Casey O’Neill is a farmer and owner of Happy Day Farms in Laytonville, Calif. The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect the views of The Mendocino Voice. If you’d like to write your own column for The Mendocino Voice, send your idea to info@mendovoice.com.
We buried our horse under smoky skies on an August afternoon, sweat mixing with tears as we said our goodbyes. Trap lived at the ranch for the thirty years of his life, an iconic part of the Bell Springs landscape, his brown coloring matching with the faded visage of the 100-year-old barn he lived in. I remember Jeep the horse, Trap’s predecessor from when we were little kids, but I can’t place the point when Trap replaced Jeep. It has been too long, and maybe I was already beginning to fly from the mountain as a teenager.
When we were kids, Jeff the rancher man used to pay us by the hour to pull thistle out of the pasture. It was a hard job for low pay, yanking the stems out of hard, dry dirt on hot days and stuffing the plants into old dog food bags for later disposal. Jeep would come to keep us company, perhaps curious about what we were up to and hoping for a carrot or an apple. Brother Lito remembers Trap’s arrival after Jeep died, taking up the role of sentinel of the ranch and foreman of the star thistle operation.
I’m not horse people, but I came to love Trap in the five years since we took over the ranch when Jeff moved to Oregon. He taught me patience and calm, to be steady around an animal large enough that his hoof could crush my foot if he startled and stepped wrong. He was already an old horse, mellow and low key enough that we had little worries with him except that his curiosity and interest in treats could get him into trouble.
In the first couple years of our stewardship at the ranch, Trap had the run of the barnyard, nosing into vehicles and upsetting the feed cart if you weren’t paying attention. He was good with kids, but also so big that it was sketchy to have him in the mix when the littles were around. After some time of his chaotic presence, we shifted him to the north pasture where he had access to that side of the barn where he was fed and had dry space to be during inclement weather.
When we got the ranch I was reluctant to take on an old horse, having little experience with them and none with managing such large livestock. Brother Echo stepped into the role, providing such loving care that I don’t hesitate to say that the last five years of Trap’s life were by far his best. We all came to think of him as part of us, an icon representing our shared project and the work we were undertaking to manage a ranch together.
Looking back over the decades I remember going to work at the ranch with Jeff, helping to fix fences, cut firewood, and one memorable day helping with round-up and branding. I was probably 12, making good money weed-eating and cutting truckloads of dry manzanita for sale. I decided that the long hours for less pay at the ranch didn’t add up compared with my other endeavors, but I never forgot the experience.
Thirty years ago we pulled star thistle from the pasture at the ranch with jokes about how bad the job was, little knowing that thirty years later we would again be pulling star thistle from the same pasture. It’s a strange feeling to look back and see my life come full circle in some ways, and to realize that Trap’s passing is the closing of a chapter, the loss of a dear friend who symbolized so much in my world.
I tend to move fast, busy in my chores and abrupt in my nature, which doesn’t mesh well with horses. Someone told me that a horse can hear a human heartbeat from yards away, and that he can read your energy before you even get close. Trap taught me to slow down, to approach with calm, to steady myself in the headlong rush of life to appreciate the moment. His soft brown coat and nuzzling nose looking for the scent of treats and snuffling greeting are sorely missed as I think of my life moving forward.
Raising livestock for sustenance carries the inevitability of death by my hand, a dichotomy that sits against my efforts to provide care and love during the animal’s lives. Trap was outside that conundrum, a friend who carried our intentions for good practice and patience within his calm demeanor. My first reaction to his death was to harden, avoiding the depth of sorrow and feeling behind the shield that holds my tenderness during slaughter. As the day wore on, I softened, collapsing into grief as I wept while we laid him to rest with carrots in his mouth, alfalfa and grain for his final journey and strewed his body with flowers and designs of multicolored corn kernels placed in patterns.
The ranch will never be the same without Trap, but his memory is beautiful in my mind, and I’ll carry his reminders to slow down, take a minute, have some quiet conversation and maybe a treat. I’m grateful for our shared human effort, for the collaborative and beautiful way that we laid him to rest. I reflect that death has much to teach, and I try to absorb the lessons and treasure life with renewed appreciation even through the hard days of August. As always, much love and great success to you on your journey!
I remember my time with my uncle’s old horse and her pasture mate, a small donkey. They lived on my grandparents small farm and they were my best buddies.Except we had the little donkey for thistle control. She loved them.
I was a semi city kid but always up there when possible. For years, they were there, part of the landscape, but always cared for. Till one visit the horse wasn’t. It was horrible. Of course I knew why, but that didn’t make it easier. Just the little donkey now and no pasture mate. Just a couple of cows.
My grandma had to sell the little farm and the new owners took the little donkey. But they moved her to another location. I never saw her again. I still miss them and think of them often. I to, learned so much from them. Patience, kindness and being faithful to your buddies…whether animal or human.
I envy your ability to place Trap’s final resting place on the property of the only home he ever knew. And don’t be afraid to have those quiet conversations. They are always listening. RIP Trap.
After reading your story I cried for all the horses I’ve loved. They were a gift. I miss them, so grateful I knew them.