On November 14, 2010 my parents came home with a 15.3 hand bay and white paint horse that changed my life. He wasn't much, just a sweet 5 year old gelding who was a little too thin and jumpy from his ride home, but I fell in love instantly, almost unable to trust what my eyes were showing me.

When I starting training to show horses in October of that year, my parents said they weren't going to buy a horse, that I could ride my Uncles' horses. Low and behold, there he was standing in front of me and utterly perfect. From that day forward, I was willing to give up anything for him and miss any and all parties just to be able to ride and spend time with him.

Fast forward 2 years, 9 months, and 24 days: my entire world came crashing down. On September 7, 2013 I had to let my parents call the vet over with the pink medicine. My perfect pony was being put down. It was, and still is, the most heartbreaking thing I have ever had to do and many people have dismissed that.

To anyone who has ever told me or someone else, "It's just a horse":

You weren't there the day of our first ride. You weren't there to see how bad my posture was or the confusion mixed with joy as I tried to figure out his buttons and how to make him go. You didn't see the happiness in my face when I got off of him and got to groom him for the first time. You never saw the transformation as my posture improved and I became more comfortable on horseback.

You weren't there for our first show together. You didn't see the way that I shook sitting on his back but knew he'd carry me safely around the arena until the class was over. You didn't watch us in our showmanship class, learning to become in tune with each other. You didn't see the progression we went through.

You weren't there the first time we fought. When the farrier cut him down too quickly and his legs started to hurt so he didn't want to ride, we fought hard. You didn't feel the confusion I felt when all of a sudden he didn't want to do what he had done without a hitch for months, years even.

You weren't there when the struggles started. You didn't see the way he refused to perform a showmanship pattern for a judge, and I smiled through my tears trying to hold my composure, and failing. You didn't hear my Uncle yell across the arena for me to get off that horse before he yanked me off him when I dug into Jet's face after a bad Pleasure ride.

You weren't there when we finally took him to the vet. A year and a half into our adventure we discovered he had Navicular Syndrome, something that caused pain and inflammation in his front feet. You didn't see my face fall when the vet said that it was one of the worst cases he had ever seen and the only way to fix him was to cut the nerves in his front legs, thus making him unable to feel them.

You didn't feel my elation after our first show back after his recovery. On my 14th birthday, Jet and I got back into the ring, and won the class. It was amazing to see the way that we FINALLY clicked and had our mojo going. From then until the day he retired, we were a perfect team that was a force to be reckoned with.

You didn't see the lameness specialist working with him, saying that his pain was coming from his shoulders and was possibly arthritis. You didn't hear the vet say that putting him on an anti-inflammatory and retiring him at the young age of 7 was the only way to help him.

You weren't there the day he came to live at my parent's house. You didn't see the way the I worked my butt off to prepare his stall before-hand. You weren't there when he followed me around the pasture without a halter on, simply because he loved me. You didn't see me spend hours grooming and talking to him like he were my only son. You didn't see me climb onto him bareback without a bridle, knowing I could trust him with my life and safety.

You never saw my tears on the day I decided it was time. You didn't see me cry from Galveston, Texas to Lake Charles, Louisiana when I made my choice to end his suffering because after only 6 months, the anti-inflammatory pills stopped working. You didn't feel my heart breaking as I left him alone the morning of September 7, 2013 knowing it would be the last time I saw him. You don't feel the daily regret of not being there with him.

Before you tell me or anyone, "It's just a horse", think about those three years. Think about the ups and downs, the successes and failures before you judge my grief. He wasn't just a horse, he was my baby, my whole world, my everything. As rough as those years were, I would never trade them for all the riches of the world and before you dismiss the pain because he's "just a horse", think.