I’m not sure why, but the burial of our horse Arthur has stayed with me in greater detail than many human funerals. This came to mind recently as I was bush hogging our back field and hit a rock I forgot was there. It was the stone we had put in place to mark where we buried Arthur many years ago.

Arthur made the transition with us when we moved from the suburbs to the country. I suppose you could make the argument it was because of Arthur that we moved to the country. He had a good life at the stable in the ‘burbs, but I like to think he enjoyed it a bit more here at Rohan Farm. Cathy still competed with him, but he and his pal Red had plenty of green pasture to roam when not working.

Cathy rode Arthur for a few more years, but he finally got older and was having some problems. Cathy bought Tucker to compete with, and we retired Arthur. He spent his days grazing with Red. Eventually, his problems worsened and the arthritis in his spine was causing significant pain. Another vet visit, and we decided it was time.

The day we put Arthur down was a pretty fall day with a vivid blue sky. The gravedigger, Larry, arrived and I showed him where we wanted Arthur buried in the back pasture. He offloaded his backhoe and started to work.

Maybe half an hour later, our vet, Tena, arrived. Cathy put a halter on Arthur and we started for the back field. There was no talking. We crossed the dike by the pond, and for some strange reason our trek reminded me of the Beatles’ Abbey Road album cover. We were in single file at that point with Tena in front. Cathy came behind leading Arthur, and I brought up the rear. I know it’s weird, but whenever I see that album cover now, I think about Arthur. It’s strange how the brain works.

In any case, we kept going and crossed the little creek that marked the entrance to the back pasture. At that point, you could hear the backhoe operating. As we crested a small hill, Larry and the grave came into view. Larry saw us and pulled the backhoe off to one side and shut it down. As we approached, he stood and took off his hat.

Larry made the hole in such a way that there was a ramp going down about eight feet to the bottom of the grave. When we arrived, Cathy led Arthur to the bottom and stood there stroking his mane. She gave him a last carrot, which he slowly munched, and then it was time. Tena gave him the shot and after a few seconds, Arthur slid to the ground. Cathy was holding his head and I was petting his side. A bit later, the life left his eyes and Tena checked his heart. It had stopped beating. We stayed with him a while longer, tears in all of our eyes.

We trudged back out of the hole and made our way across the field. Larry put his hat back on and sat down on the backhoe . As we crossed the stream at the edge of the field, I heard him start the backhoe again.

Arthur was 25 when we put him down. When Red died a few years later, he was 31. We put him in the back field next to his buddy Arthur. Both graves have turned green with new grass over the years. The stone markers have sunk into the earth and don’t protrude much anymore. When the grass gets higher, I can’t see the stones and occasionally hit one with the bush hog.

Over time, we buried other horses, dogs and cats here on the property. While I remember the others, it’s Arthur’s burial on that pretty fall day that has stayed with me. Larry’s sensitivity and Tena’s compassion were a part of it, as was Cathy’s and my sadness. And Arthur himself? I suppose it’s strange to say it, but his dignity was with him to the end. He was a good horse.