When Joy Ends In Heartbreak: Ellis' Story

 I like stories with happy endings. I always have. And maybe you do, too. So I want to warn you, this story… this story does not. It’s a story I didn’t want to have to tell. A story I wish I could step in and rewrite to have a sweet, happy finish. But Ellis deserves to have his story told. He was only in my life for five months, but I will never forget him.

He came to us in the spring as a training job. A coming five-year-old, this small chestnut gelding with a large white blaze was already fully saddle-trained. Ellis wasn’t his actual name, but that's what we began calling him, and he always responded to it. The owner, who had bought him from his previous trainer, wanted him to stay with us for a few months to begin his training as a trail horse. He was to be brought straight to us from the farm where he was raised and trained. The gelding sounded amazing; a horse trainer's dream job. A well-behaved, trained horse to take only on daily trail rides: how perfect could this be! But I felt alarm bells go off in my head when the horse was unloaded at the stable. First, he was thin. The girl who trailed him said they’d always had a hard time keeping weight on him. Okay, I got that; some horses have that tendency. But something was just off. I thought he seemed a little uncoordinated; she said it’d been a long trip and he was tired. Everything I asked about, she had a logical answer for, and said she’d email me his coggins report. She soon left, and I would never hear from her again. But that gut feeling that something wasn’t right just wouldn’t go away. The more time I spent with him that day, the more it felt like he had been drugged or something. I told myself I was being paranoid - that I had heard too many stories. 

By the next day, the horse seemed better, more alert. And it didn’t take long for his sweet, gentle nature to shine through. I was delighted to see that he seemed happy in his paddock, where he could move around freely. We learned that he’d always been in small pens and had never actually been turned out on grass. So we immediately began his safe, slow introduction into grazing. The first time we turned him out onto the pasture, he just stopped, as though overwhelmed by how much room he had access to all at once. My heart felt his joy when I saw him suddenly go galloping through the grass. He turned to look at me, as though saying thank you for this. After he’d had time to settle in, we began riding him, and he genuinely enjoyed being with people. He was so incredibly willing to do what he was asked and always moved with a happy calmness that could make anyone relax being around him. There was no debate: he had a heart of gold that he was ready to share with everyone.

My brother and I took leisurely trail rides, and he rarely had any issues. The one thing he wasn’t sure about was crossing water, so we worked on that until he felt comfortable with it. I was always impressed by his ability to think through what we were doing and not explode at the unexpected. Those first couple of months were a joy. I got to watch Ellis learn how to actually just be a horse - running around and kicking up his heels during his daily turnout, napping in the sun, and eating well. His training showed he had great promise of being a fantastic trail horse, even at a young age. I felt so blessed to get to work with him.

Then we noticed he was losing weight again. We quickly reduced his training, increased his feed, and dewormed him. But those alarm bells were echoing in my mind, once again saying something was terribly wrong. I just didn’t know what it was, and it was terrifying. The next few months, we didn’t ride him. We talked a lot with his new owner. We went to vets. We did shots and medications. Tried supplements. Changed feeds. Increased it again. Nothing seemed to help. And nothing was giving us answers. He was still losing weight. From there, it only got worse. Now his breathing was labored and his coat dull. I told Ellis I wasn't going to give up on him; that I would do everything I could for him. Back to vets and so many questions. We trailered him to some vets. Had some come to the stables. Others were kind neighbors who were vets coming when they heard about what was going on. No one knew exactly what was wrong with Ellis. But they all told me what I was fearing: we were losing him. I looked in his eyes, and it seemed he knew it too. His beautiful, gentle eyes were tired, and his strength was fading. 

 Our last trip to the vet was an emergency one, where I feared Ellis might fall in the trailer. We checked him over and over on the drive. Somehow, he remained standing, but he was so, so weak. We were told lungs looked like he had Heaves, like equine asthma, even though he didn’t have all the symptoms. They said it was the worst case they’d ever seen - his lungs were like those of a struggling horse of 30, not a young five-year-old. 

“Why?” We asked brokenly. “What could have caused that?”

Likely, the environment he was raised in was their sober answer. 

 Looking at what this had done to the beautiful boy I’d come to love, I knew there was a dreaded, heartbreaking question that had to be voiced. I asked the owner on the phone and the vet we were with if it was time to let him find peace. The vet said let’s give it one last try. More tests. More shots, more meds. One last desperate attempt to give this sweet boy a shot at living a full life. It didn’t last long. Now, he wasn’t eating.

I tried to coax him to eat something, anything, while my eyes welled with tears. Only days later, we found him down in the paddock, breathing raggedly and unable to get up. A part of my heart shattered. I called the owner, and we both knew it was time to let him go; there was no other choice. It was Sunday, but a local vet still said he’d come. I stayed with Ellis the whole time. I told him I loved him. That he was such a good, good boy, I told him he wouldn’t hurt much longer. And I wept as I told him I’d miss him so very much. When the vet arrived, my sobs made it hard for me to speak.

“I’m sorry…” I managed to say.

“Don’t be.” The vet said softly. “This is always hard.”

In a few short minutes, Ellis was gone. He had struggled for a moment before relaxing as the life went out of his eyes. My horses stood watching, in still, reverent silence that just ached inside me. My brothers buried him here, in the back of our pasture. I still miss Ellis. I miss all that he was to me, all that he could’ve been and might’ve done. But I’m glad he’s at rest now, because watching him struggle was as painful as losing him.

This was written through tears as the scenes I have tried for years to forget replayed in my mind. A part of us wants to just bury the pain so it can't hurt us any longer. But grief, grief is a part of life. It will always find us. And often it will break us. Yet it will also teach us, mold us. And that is why I'm choosing to share this story with you.

In the short time I knew Ellis, he showed me how much impact a few months and a few interactions can have on a heart. He inspired me to make a difference. He challenged me to accept hardship as a gift that takes you places that fun never could. He reminded me that it truly is better to have loved and lost than to never to have loved at all. Yes, grief and loss, they break us. But if we let God come into the brokenness, we will find that He brings us restoration and comfort. He promises that all that He allows in our lives is for a purpose. 

If Ellis hadn’t come into my life, my heart would have hurt less, but I also wouldn’t have loved as much. Ellis might have never experienced a true home or getting to live as an actual horse, running through fresh grass. And that is how I vow to remember him - ears forward, gentle eyes full of excitement, galloping through green pastures, looking at me like, “Thank you for this!”

If you are grieving right now, know that those broken pieces of your heart can be put back together by the loving grace of Christ Jesus. He has done it for me so many times - through loss and pain, both great and small. And I know He will do the same for you.