A Different Word than Died

I did not know, when I shared part of Domyno's story, that I would soon be living its final chapter.

Only a short time after I released it, my beautiful Domyno completed her life.

She was twenty-seven years old.

As I've looked through old photographs these past few days, I've realized how deeply she is woven into the story of this ranch—and into mine.

Domyno captured my heart the day she was born.

I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could.

That summer, I took on an extra writing job so I could earn enough to purchase her when she was weaned.

Years ago, writing brought Domyno into my life.

Today, writing helps me tell her story.

It feels like a circle I never could have planned.

Domyno was one of my first riding horses. With her, I began my journey into trick training. But perhaps her greatest gift was teaching me to love new life.

Her first foal was named Indee. Although he wasn't part of my plans, that summer he wobbled into my life on unsteady legs. As he grew in strength, I laughed as he sprinted away from his mom, only to return when she nickered. She was never far away. Watching them together, I fell in love with being part of the unfolding of new life.

Now spring is my second Christmas, as I wait for the new foals to be born.

Domyno gave me this gift. She shaped this part of the story I am still living.

For some time, I sensed her life was drawing toward its completion.

She spent more time resting and quietly watching the world around her.

We spent time together.

Remembering.

Yet I kept hoping. Maybe this wouldn't be the final chapter. There had been other seasons when I thought I might lose her, only to have her recover.

Every day she lived felt like another gift.

On the day she completed her life, she spent it the way she had spent so many others.

Grazing beside Indee.

Stopping for a drink.

Resting in the summer sunshine.

Her life reached its completion in the most ordinary of ways.

That afternoon, as my tears flowed, I searched for a different word than died.

Completed landed in my heart like a soothing balm.

The word carried peace. Not because it made me miss her less, but because it helped me see that there was nothing more to add to her life.

Her chapter was full.

Yet the gifts she gave are still on the ranch.

In Indee. In the other horses that call Domyno mother.

I have shed many tears over the past few days. Even though I tried to prepare for her passing, I wasn't ready.

Are we ever?

Even Indee has been different. Usually, he likes to play tag before I catch him, but after Domyno was gone, he stood quietly beside me. In those first moments, he called for her again and again.

She had been his closest companion since the day he was born.

---

As I look through the old photographs, I realize that although her life reached its completion, her influence has not diminished.

Her story is complete.

Its influence isn't.

It echoes through the stories still being written.

In every descendant of hers that grazes these pastures.

In every spring morning that fills me with anticipation as I wait for new foals.

In every lesson she taught me.

Even in these words.

Writing brought Domyno into my life.

Now, writing is one way her life continues to touch others.

Her chapter can be complete while its influence continues to unfold.

I wonder if there's a reason we have two hands.

One to hold grief.

The other to hold gratitude.

Today, I hold both.

Tears for the mare I miss.

Smiles for the stories we shared.

Twenty-seven years is a long time.

Yet it doesn't seem long enough.

Domyno's life is complete.

But the hope she left behind still walks through these pastures.

Next spring, I'll wait again for new life to emerge from hidden places. Another granddaughter or grandson of Domyno will take a first breath.

And somewhere in the quiet waiting, I will remember the mare who first taught me to love new life.

If you’d like the fuller story of Domyno and her foals, born 18 years apart, you can find it here.

Not Part of the Plan

Twice, my plans for one horse were interrupted.

The first time, she was beginning her training.

The second time, she was supposed to be retired.

Both times, I thought the interruption had changed the story for the worse.

Both times, a year later, a black foal stood beside her.

The mare’s name was Domyno.

She was jet-black with a bold white star on her forehead. While she was still young, I had already planned the years we would spend together—riding, chasing cows, and exploring the river hills.

Then one night, the neighbour’s stallion got out.

In the morning, we discovered which mare he had chosen.

Domyno.

I was devastated.

Three years of planning. Dreaming.

Gone.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

For a few minutes, my emotions churned, and I couldn’t approach Domyno. I didn't want to take my frustration out on her; it wasn't her fault. I eventually picked up a brush and started to groom her. The rhythmic brushing helped me come to terms with what occurred. We would face whatever came next together.

Still, I hoped there would be no baby.

As the months passed, her belly grew larger and rounder. By spring, there would be a foal.

Domyno gave birth to a black colt with a bold white blaze and white socks.

We named him Indee.

I waited impatiently for Domyno to raise her colt so that we could wean him, and she and I could get back to the business of riding. At the time, Indee seemed more like an interruption than a gift.

I had no idea what he would become.

He grew into one of our family’s main riding horses, excelling especially at cattle work. He could stop a cow in its tracks with a flick of his tail while quietly guiding another toward a different gate with the angle of his neck.

Even now, Indee loves to play tag before he is caught. Bring out a cookie, though, and the game quickly becomes “Feed me another one.”

Eighteen years after Indee was born, Domyno was retired. I had decided to let her spend the rest of her days peacefully on the ranch.

Then our stallion got out, and a small group of horses escaped with him.

Including Domyno.

Once again, I was concerned.

By then, Domyno was twenty-one. She had proven herself to be an exceptional mother. My concern wasn’t that she couldn’t raise another foal.

It was that she had already done enough.

After years of riding and raising foals, she had earned a quiet retirement.

Now, once again, my plans changed.

Over the next year, I watched her closely, giving her extra oats and hoping she wouldn’t foal again.

But once again, her belly grew round.

Spring would bring another baby.

Exactly one year after the horses got out, Domyno gave birth to a jet-black filly.

We named her Esperanza, the Spanish word for hope.

Now, five years after Esperanza’s birth, Domyno is twenty-seven, with grey flecks in her hair. She is doing well.

Indee is semi-retired.

They spend their days resting and grazing together. If we take Indee out for a ride, Domyno waits at the gate for him. When he returns, her whinny is the first thing to greet him.

These days, when I go looking for Domyno, I almost always find Indee nearby, grazing quietly beside her.

Esperanza isn’t far away, growing into the next chapter of the story.

Neither of them was supposed to be part of this story.

I can’t imagine it without them now.