Horses have been a part of me almost as long as I've been able to string words together into a sentence. By kindergarten, I'd already been infected by the horse bug and pestered my parents constantly for anything equine related. I've worked with them for about half of my life; I wandered away, but they would always call me back. Horses had gotten under my skin, and even when I left for college and gained new interests (snowboarding, lacrosse, staying out late to party), there was always that subconscious understanding that I had spent so much time with horses and learned so much, I would never truly be able to walk away and just be a normal person looking at a couple over someone's fence.

Every time I'd come home for break, one of my first stops would be back to the barn. It was unspoken that when I returned, I was automatically on for chores and even in bad weather, I relished the work. It was comfortingly familiar and a change of pace from my college world. Horses were a fixture in my life, for better or for worse, including the affectionately nicknamed "Old Man."

Old Man died last week after decades on this earth being unapologetically himself, stubborn and sometimes crabby, but always there. I'd heard stories of his younger days; fiery and difficult, jigging when he didn't get what he wanted, which was usually to head home from the trails going his way. In recent years, he'd become mostly blind and hard of hearing, skinny despite bowls of feed too heavy to lift. It was amazing how much that horse could put away, slobbering down mushy grain and alfalfa slop. But mostly he retained his charm, even in the wizened body that stooped from age, hiding what a big, proud horse he had once been. Many people don't see the charm in an old horse's graying face but there was something charismatic about the old trickster. He never lost his sense of humor. and he would use it on people he didn't respect, and those not giving him due attention.

I'd seen his owner let him out into the yard to graze and lay his leadline down for only a minute to go grab something. She'd made about five steps away when he slyly looked up at her departing back, and took off running. He wasn't very fast anymore and he didn't go very far, but you could see the pleasure on his face for having gotten one over on her. He'd also gotten into the riding ring one winter, jogged a couple laps around and decided it was as boring as he recalled from years before, and thus satisfied, made his exit.

Old Man made his thoughts and desires known, pushing up against the younger horses to make room for him if treats were being dispensed. Despite physical impairments, he had a near magical sense for the crackling of a candy wrapper or a carrot being cracked in half, and he was always there, sidling up like a ninja and thrusting his nose into your fumbling hands. Old horses can require a lot of patience, but it was impossible to get mad at him. He was just Old Man, with his draining hourglass and own agenda.

Elderly horses are often tossed away carelessly to auctions and shady homes because people don't want to put the extra time and money into them for a variety of reasons. In that way, Old Man was lucky to be kept around just to mow the daisies. But his mere existence brought us a lot of joy. Each day I'd come to muck out the paddock, he'd appear from somewhere and headbutt my back. Sometimes I'd purposely ignore him, and he'd insistently nudge me for a few minutes until I relented. He was steady and acted as if he had all the time in the world, and some days, it was easy to believe that. I'd shoo him away at times because he'd get in the space between my muck fork and the cart, or trap me between horses. He would sigh and rearrange himself, always nearby so when you were done, you could scratch his jaw. I obliged every time, even when he purposely knocked the fork off the cart because I was taking too long.

Now my world is Old Man-less. One afternoon I went out to check the herd before dinnertime and he wasn't there. I knew, just didn't want to admit it. The remaining herd milled about, calm but disconcerted. He wasn't loud but he had a presence you can feel when you're still. The other horses stand by his empty stall waiting for nothing. You can tell they miss him and are going through their own grieving process. This was one of their friends and they lived together 24/7, through long storms and snow that seemed like it would never end.

How could the bottom of the totem pole have left such a lasting effect? He and the other oldie would go at it, swinging around heads with pinned ears and gnashing their remaining teeth simply to confirm the other was lower ranked. It was humorous to watch because they seemed about equal and that the play fighting was just for morale. Recently, the two had started to spend hours together napping and swishing the early batch of flies, and I joked one of them must be dying. It was true, though; over the years, I'd seen sworn enemies become friendly, making peace just weeks before one passed. Animals can sense when another is sick even when we can't, and I'm convinced they have scores to settle just like people do. I'm glad he made whatever amends he had.

I'm glad I spent time with him each week because I didn't know when he'd be gone. I think of seeing him just the day before he died, having no idea this would be the last time as he nuzzled the crumbles of banana chips off my palm. He didn't seem any different and I wonder if he knew the end was coming or not. All I know is there will be no more cutting apples into paper-thin pieces for the old guy. No more watered down feed spilling in the aisle. No more Old Man wiping his nose or rubbing the hair on his face out on my t-shirt, bumping me into gates and the electric fence. No more silly faces and sticking his tongue out after I wiped his eye goo away. The feeling of loss didn't settle in initially, but I feel it grow each day as it becomes real that he's not going to wander out of the back field.