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I want to tell you about a horse. A little grey half-Arab mare named Dippi. Five and a half years ago, she came into our lives as a gift from my mentor, hoof trimmer, and friend. She immediately became the favorite on our farm with her larger-than-life how-come-I-can’t-just-sit-in-your-lap personality. She was the sweetest mare in our herd, with her soft eye and kind heart.

Dippi would let you kiss her muzzle and stroke her ears. She would let you sit on her back when she was resting. Dippi would mutually groom you when you stroked her neck, her whiskers tickling your back. She would stand quiet and let you look into her eyes. She would let you dress her up on Halloween and she’d wear party hats at every party.

Dippi was more than a pet. She was more than a companion, more than a friend. She was a teacher.

Dippi came to me with only a dozen rides on her. I was the first to canter her under saddle, the first to ride her over and through many obstacles on the trail. I was the first to jump her. I was the first to compete on the trail with her. Dippi was a gentle mount. She was smart, and true to her nature, she was honest.

She gave me confidence. She gave me the confidence to take on more difficult horses. She gave me the confidence to challenge myself as a rider and a trainer. She taught me to believe that I could always be better.

She taught me to trust. She was never a dangerous mount, but she was a freight train on the trail with a gigantic trot and an even bigger “can-do” attitude. She taught me to put my big girl panties on and hold on tight, that sometimes it is okay to just be a passenger.

She taught me to love more deeply and to laugh more often. She would follow me around the paddock. She would nibble at my hair and my clothing and beg for treats.

Dippi also taught me to dream bigger. With her amazing heart rate recoveries and ground covering gait, I believed she was going to be our next Tevis horse, and that she would be the first of ours to earn a Best Condition award in a 50-mile race.

Dippi was also going to heal a broken heart. Six weeks before the Camp Fire broke out and raged through our town, destroying everything in its path, my son’s beloved horse, Beauty, succumbed to an episode of colic. Although I rushed Beauty to UC Davis Veterinary Hospital, surgery was not an option as she had over 20 feet of necrotic bowel, which was the result of a strangulating lipoma.

When Beauty died, my sixteen-year-old was devastated, but he still had Dippi. He shared a special bond with her and the two of them had completed many rides together, including the 100-mile Twenty Mule Team ride in Southern California. After Beauty died, I knew Dippi would heal his broken heart and he’d continue riding, for he loved competing on her just as much as he had Beauty.

There is always another horse, they say. Things happen for a reason, they say. It could have been so much worse, they say.

But it wasn’t just a horse that died. Dreams died with her. Dreams died with her and it shouldn’t have been her.

It shouldn’t have been Dippi.

Dippi wasn’t just any horse. She was one of our most valuable, both in emotional worth and financial value. We did not choose to leave her behind. We had just simply loaded other horses up first. And when we realized that the trailer coming for her and ZaZa wasn’t going to make it, it was too late to try to load 3 horses into the two-horse trailer and 4 horses into the three-horse, for the two-horse trailer had already left, leaving us to wait for the trailer which never showed.

And then the fire raged, moving a football field a second, taking down trees and power lines in its wake, enclosing roads, blocking routes. It became an entrapment, merciless, and rescue was impossible.  

Dippi survived the fire, but she suffered such severe hoof burns that she developed laminitis. For weeks, UC Davis Veterinary Hospital tried to save her. I consulted with outside veterinarians, collaborated with hoof trimmers and body workers. I spoke with horse owners who had successfully rehabbed horses who had foundered. I had money to spend and far more hope than that.

But ultimately, there was nothing left that could be done.

On the morning I decided to have her euthanized, Dippi was no longer standing to eat. Her left hind hoof was leaking synovial fluid. Her coffin bone had rotated and sunken so badly that it was protruding down into the sole of her foot.

I instructed the veterinarians to dose her with as much pain medication as she needed, and when we — my two older boys and me, along with our friend Nyah and her mother, Shasta — arrived that Tuesday afternoon, Dippi was standing, waiting for us.

Things don’t always happen for a reason. Sometimes things just happen, and all that is left is to say good-bye.

Dippi died peacefully on January 15, 2019, surrounded by love, as we whispered good-bye.

Tags: camp fire, horses, paradise, wildfire

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