On the last day of 2024, a wonderful horse named Napoleon laid down and died of old age. We had no warning except that he was 31 years old, 108 in human years. The night before, he’d acted normal, ate dinner, walked around, and strolled over for proffered cookies.
But Napoleon’s death is only the final curtain in the life of a remarkable horse. I came into his life late, his last 3 years. I was being trained in dressage, and he was my lesson horse. He had trained several riders before me. He was an excellent teacher, with a unique personality. He knew what you were supposed to do and made you work for it, but was very accommodating. He never acted angrily but definitely was known for expressing his opinion, such as it’s time to head back to my stall. A rider might be turning his head to steer him back into the arena, and he’d be walking steadily sideways out the gate!
He took pride in his dressage ability. At 14 hands, he often showed the much bigger warmbloods how the moves should look: the swingy trot, the squared-up stop (he nailed that every time), the smooth transitions, and the relaxed neck.
At the end of his life, the vet told him he wasn’t allowed to canter anymore, but there were days when I could feel him wanting to go faster than a mere trot.
One of my most vivid memories was during a cantering lesson. I was guiding him around in a circle when suddenly, a plastic bag flapped at him. In response to this aggressive attack, Napoleon leapt into the air at canter speed, did a 180-degree spin, and launched me down the arena. After all, he was a Mustang with all the instincts of a wild horse: run first, ask questions later. Fortunately, the arena was soft sand, and I managed to fall in a manner to minimize damage. All of the observers were, of course, horrified. I got up and retrieved Napoleon from where he was standing and looking at me with concern. Then, I remounted and continued our lesson (after the offending bag was removed).
Before becoming a dressage expert, Napoleon herded cattle. So, when a few steers got loose in the neighborhood, they called on Napoleon to round them up. My dressage trainer, Mike, rode Napoleon to the loose cattle and told him to do his thing. Napoleon looked at him as if reminding him he taught dressage now and stood there. Then, perhaps with a sigh, he went into his cattle horse mode and herded livestock back where they’d belonged. He did everything well.
Another job he held was giving pony rides to children. He was easy-going and was a comfortable ride. I wonder how he felt about it. I took him to school to introduce horses to my Animal Friends class. He was very tolerant of the swarms of small children and walking among the line of waiting school buses. He enjoyed grazing on the grass in the playground. Naturally, all the kids wanted to ride him, but that wasn’t allowed. The best I could offer was to hold the end of the lead rope as I led him around the field.
Napoleon was a wild horse captured by the BLM in the Pilot Mountain HMA, Nevada, on September 27, 1994, at one year old. His number was 93 546922, which was tattooed under his mane. He was gelded, but post-operative care was poor, so he lived with an enlarged scrotum that was a location for cellulitis in his later years. I always worked with him to make his nether region shorter and squishy.
I had the pleasure of taking a few trail rides on Napoleon. He absolutely loved trail rides and the freedom of the desert. One of my few wishes is that I would have owned him when he was younger, so we could have done more trail riding. As it is, I treasure every ride I had on him. Our time together was short but one of great affection. As he lay dying, he knickered when I arrived and called to him and raised his head, maybe hoping for one last cookie. I miss hugging his neck, running my fingers through his long mane, feeling his soft lips as he eagerly ate treats, and his tearing Poncho’s fly mask and sheet (pretty good for a horse with few teeth.)
Napoleon, originally named Tommy (definitely, not a Tommy), touched many human lives. He brought joy to riders and a sense of peace not found in many activities. Nearly 32 years old, I hope I gave him a good end-of-life. He deserved it after 30+ years of serving people. I take solace that his death was a natural one of old age and that he didn’t suffer from colic or laminitis. It was his time, and he went quickly after a good supper and restful night. Thank you, Napoleon, for waiting for me to say goodbye and for all the time we shared. Run free, old man!
If you enjoyed Napoleon’s story and want to read more heartwarming horse tales, be sure to explore my other blogs.
© 2021 All rights reserved Lyric power publishing llc
WHERE WE MAKE SCIENCE FUN!
