At the Edge of Life: What a Dying Horse Taught Me About Presence

I originally wrote this piece in the weeks before my mare Skye’s passing. I wasn’t sure I would ever share it as my heart is remains raw. But now, looking back, I can see how the lessons I received in being present with Dexter’s death became threads that were later woven into my experience with Skye. These moments with each soul are interconnected, each teaching preparing me for the next.

There are moments in life when time slows, breath catches, and the veil between worlds thins.

I didn’t expect to witness death that day. I was simply standing in the field, letting my mare Jewel graze in the late spring light, when Dexter—a 26-year-old Quarter Horse—walked out from the forest with his small herd. He was calm but purposeful, and as he passed close to us, he let out two fierce, echoing whinnies. It was strange. His herd was already with him. Who was he calling for?

Moments later, his body collapsed.

He fell suddenly, violently, in a way that startled all of us-humans and horses alike. His legs flailed. His body convulsed. And even though his three herd mates had followed him out of the trees, they startled and ran, scattering as if spooked by a predator. Only Dexter remained.

As my friend called the ranch owner. I knelt beside Dexter, trying to offer him a sense of safety and connection.

His body was soaked in sweat. His belly was taut. His eyes still moved, as if part of him was trying to stay but something else was already letting go. My friend laid hands on his belly. I placed mine on Dexter’s crown. We whispered to him, grounding him in love, telling him what an amazing horse he had been and how he had done an incredible job caring for his herd and keeping them safe.

Minutes later, the ranch owner arrived. She knelt beside Dexter, checked his gums, and quietly said, “He’s shocking.” I could see it too- the slow seep of life leaving his body. And then, a minute later, he was still.

But the energy in the field lingered. It felt charged, reverent, sacred and forever changed for me.

Who Was He Calling?

It’s a question that’s lingered in my heart ever since.

Dexter’s whinny into the trees past his herd mates wasn’t casual. It was commanding. Was it a soul announcing something? A soul perhaps reaching across the veil? Though his companions were beside him, he wasn’t calling to them. He was calling beyond them. And that’s when it hit me.

Just minutes before Dexter fell, I had an odd and vivid sense of Bruce, our beloved draft horse who we had to let go this past February. Bruce is buried just fifty feet from where Dexter died. I hadn’t been thinking of him that day. But suddenly, there he was in my mind’s eye-solid and peaceful. I saw him there on the field, just moments before Dexter’s collapse.

Could Dexter have been calling for Bruce?

I’ve long believed that animals know when death is near. And I’ve come to believe that sometimes, other souls- animal or human-come to guide them across. The thought that Bruce might have returned to accompany Dexter brings comfort, not just to my heart, but to the calling I feel more deeply with each passing day: to walk beside elder horses as they age, and sometimes, as they pass.

What Dexter Taught Me About Death and Presence

 There is a moment that is subtle, almost imperceptible when the body and soul begin to part ways. I felt that moment with Dexter.

At first, it looked like a fight. His limbs flailed in a way that was hard to watch. His eyes were wide. His breath erratic. His body felt stuck between life and death, surging with energy that no longer seemed to belong to him. But then… something shifted. A softening and his gaze turned inward. The tension began to melt. His spirit, I believe, had made the choice.

I kept my hands on his crown and neck, and whispered “You’re not alone. You are seen. You are safe.” My friend stood quietly at his belly, anchoring the space with his presence and gentleness.

We didn’t speak to one another. We simply stayed with Dexter witnessing, breathing, letting go alongside him.

It struck me that while his herd had run from the fear of the unknown, I had stepped toward it.

And perhaps that’s the quiet vow of those of us who feel called to work with the older horses. We are present not to prevent death, but to dignify it—to soften its edges and hold space when others flee.

For Others on This Path

 If you love horses, especially the wise elders, you will, at some point, face this edge.

It might come suddenly in a field, as it did with Dexter, or slowly over time as it did with our beloved draft horse Bruce. You may not feel ready. You may want to run. But if you can stay, anchor with your breath. Stay with your heart open. Stay with the truth of what’s unfolding. You don’t need to know what to do.

You don’t need to know what to say. Presence is enough.

Just lay your hands gently on their body. Speak softly or sit in silence. Know that even in their final moments, horses sense energy. They know safety. They feel love.

And if you ever sense a presence near, a beloved animal long passed, a whisper of memory, a flicker of light on the edge of the field, trust in it. These thresholds are not lonely. Even when we feel alone, there are unseen forces holding us with quiet grace.

A Final Tribute

Dexter, your final whinnies still echo in my heart.

I don’t know who you were calling for but I believe they heard.

 Maybe Bruce met you at the tree line. Maybe others from the spirit herd came too. Or maybe it was the earth itself that held you. Maybe your soul just needed to speak one last time.

You reminded me that presence is the greatest gift we can give. You reminded me of why I walk this path with horses. And you reminded me that even at the edge of life, love remains.

Run free, sweet friend.

May your spirit find open fields and kind hands, always.