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for two miles. Then I walked him half a mile and asked for the canter. For a mile, it was collected, even, easy, a perfect joy. Then I walked him again.
    At the last, I gave in to impulse. After he had caught his breath, I turned him, bridged my reins, and assumed galloping position. I said out loud, “Pick your own pace,” and he did. Hetook hold and shot forward, switching leads and going faster about every eighth of a mile, exactly like a racehorse. But then, he was always a racehorse. The other stuff was just for fun.
    For me, the “breeze” was both frightening and exhilarating — as fast as I had ever gone on a horse, but incredibly stable. Yes, I was not in control, but he was, and I never doubted that he knew exactly where each foot was at every stride. More important, all this exercise was effortless. He was hardly blowing after we had gone half a mile and I managed to bring him down. It took him the usual ten minutes to cool out.
    Three days later, we went to the show. He warmed up and jumped around perfectly, won a couple of ribbons, seemed happy.
    Thus it was that I couldn’t believe it, four days after that, when Mike told me that his atrial fibrillation was back, and possibly worse. His heart rhythm was chaotic. We took another EKG, sent it off to Davis, discussed it more than necessary with lots of vets. The cardiologist’s recommendation was discouraging — walking around, maybe a little trotting from time to time. But, I said. But. But when I galloped him on the track, the work was effortless for him.
    The answer to the riddle was in his large, strong heart. He had enough overcapacity to give himself some leeway, to oxygenate himself thoroughly almost all of the time. The danger, to me as well as to him, was that his overcapacity was unpredictable. He could literally be doing fine one moment and drop dead the next. And, the cardiologist suggested, in accordance with the no free-lunch principle, greater-than-average heart size often went with arrhythmia. His recommendation stayed the same — walking, a little jogging from time to time.
    I stopped riding the horse. I’m not sure why, except that I was confused and ambivalent. One day I decided to ignore the cardiologist’s advice, the next day I decided to heed it. Mr. T. and I were used to working, and working pretty hard. If we weren’t allowed to work hard together, then what? I didn’t know. I let him hang out in the pasture with his brood mare friend.
    Not too long ago, I decided to pretty much ignore the cardiologist. I wouldn’t be stupid and run Mr. T. cross-country or “breeze” him again, but I would do dressage and jump and treat him like a normal horse.
    That very day, I went out to give him a carrot, and he was standing in the shade, pawing the ground. I put him in a stall with lots of water and no food — he’d been colicky before. By bedtime, he had manured three or four times.
    In the morning he seemed right as rain, so I began introducing a bit of hay. He continued to seem fine. After noon, I let him out. An hour later he was pawing and looking at his flanks. I called Mike, who was engaged but promised to come ASAP.
    Half an hour later, the horse was eating manure. My heart sank. Even though Mike and another vet I asked said this meant nothing with regard to colic, I knew differently. I had never seen him do such a thing, and I thought it was an act of equine desperation.
    The rest of the day was a losing battle. No matter how much painkiller of whatever kind we gave him, the pain could not be alleviated. And his atrial fibrillation meant that he couldnot tolerate surgery. The impaction, which may or may not have been a torsion, was out of reach and would not dissolve. At 10:00 pm, I said to Mike, “Are you telling me now’s the time?”
    He said, “Yes.”
    I led Mr. T. out of the lighted stall where we had been trying to treat him. He moved, but his head