Horseback Riding in Nepal: The Tragic Tale of Zuma, a Tibetan Pony, and the Heart-wrenching Struggle to End His Suffering
Amidst the raw emotions and urgency surrounding Zuma's tragic fate, the narrative shifts abruptly from the bustling streets of Pokhara to a seemingly ordinary outing turned nightmare. The tranquility of a leisurely ride into town swiftly transforms into a harrowing ordeal as a careless encounter with a blue truck shatters the peaceful tableau, propelling both horse and rider into a nightmare of pain and uncertainty. In the aftermath of the collision, with Zuma's broken leg hanging precariously and the specter of impending loss looming large, a desperate scramble ensues to secure aid and solace for the wounded animal. As the echoes of distress reverberate through the air, a somber realization sets in, underscoring the fragile balance between serenity and chaos in the unpredictable tapestry of life.
A large Nepali man drove up eventually with another man in tow as Razu talked to Tim, who told me that this was the veterinarian. Tim still hadn’t gotten a hold of Scott, but they did get a hold of H.A.R.T., the non-profit clinic that spays and neuters and provides care for the dogs and cats in Pokhara, though they couldn’t bring it to us for quite a while. The veterinarian rolled up his sleeves and spoke in Nepali for a bit, and then Razu looked at me and said that we needed to get the horse to the ground. Tim and I were so insistent on Zuma being put down and out of his misery that I fought what would happen. We couldn’t get this horse forced to the ground. What were they going to do?
The veterinarian I had worked for over 20 years ago had a mare come in one day with a hairline fracture just coming up through the third metacarpal (The hind leg). Dr. Max Nichols (or “Doc” as I called him) had discussed with the mare owners that she would never be able to be ridden again and her quality of life wouldn’t be excellent. The hind leg bears most of the weight, and the healing process would be long and painful. Since in the U.S., the laws were set that a veterinarian cannot put the animal down without the owner's consent, all they can do is advise but then follow the owner’s wishes that the mare was to have the leg repaired and the process of healing would follow. I was present during the surgery as Doc set the bone with two long bars and several pins screwed through the bone to hold it tight. He left the wound with tubes in it so that it could drain whatever infection was going to develop and placed a light wrap of a cast over it to protect it. From there, my job was to take a turkey baster, flu, and the leg inside the cast with Betadine and provide daily shots of Penicillin to help fight infection. The mare had rolled in her stall a few days later, smashing the leg against the wall and breaking apart the leg more and, in the process, bent the pins that were screwed in. Doc again warned them of the horse not having any quality of life, and even more so now that the horse had broken the leg further. They insisted that he set the bone again, and into surgery, we went. I was again following up with daily washes and Penicillin shots. Several days had passed, and the mare rolled in her stall again, breaking the pins and the leg. The owners again insisted on Doc setting the bone, and we went into surgery for a third time. This time, the leg was a beaten pulp. There was nothing left of any substance that could ever heal up to hold the horse properly, allowing her any sort of relief from the pain and stiffness she would endure. Doc spoke to the owners about the condition of the leg and was more insistent that they consider the life that the mare would have at the expense of their fear of grieving her death. They spent a night outside of her stall and, in the morning, made the decision to put her down and end her suffering. After the horse had been put to sleep permanently, I was tasked with removing the pins from the leg. Here’s where this story gets graphic, so feel free to skip to the following paragraph: Despite all efforts to fight infection, the horse's leg was a mass of puss and stunk of death. The maggots from flies laying their eggs in her leg were crawling around, eating away at an utterly dead limb on a once alive animal. Her leg was literally rotten to death as she was still alive.
There are many ways to drop a horse by tying the leg up, and I asked how he wanted to do this. After I realized the veterinarian had no idea how, other than just tying a leg or two, I helped them tie up one front leg and a hind leg. I looked at Laxman and told him that when the horse goes down, someone needs to sit on his neck, and someone else needs to hold his head to keep him from coming up. He nodded and then spoke to a few of the Nepali men who were willing to help. We quickly pulled on the legs as the horse rocked off balance, and then I pushed the head and neck down. I yelled, “Get on his neck,” and “Pull those legs up.” We had the three legs bound up, and Laxman and I both were on the neck and head. Zuma was down.
I was wearing a “wife beater” shirt since my ride was only supposed to be an hour at most. With the sun blazing down on us all and the temperature reaching nearly 85° F, Tim handed me a light scarf to put on my shoulders to protect me from sunburn. I pulled the scarf off of me and placed it over Zumba’s eye to keep him calm. As I realized what we were about to do and that the care following would be more critical than the care I provided for the mare, I turned to Razu and said, “We can get iodine?” (since I knew Betadine was most likely not available) and he nodded with the response “Pharmacy.”
The veterinarian placed a needle into Zumba’s neck with what looked like saline and pressed the solution into the pony. I am pretty confident that whatever he gave the pony didn’t relieve any pain as he thrashed and struggled at every moment he could. Each thrashed, the exposed bone ground into the dirt, and the attached limb flailed about.
In all, there were roughly 7 or more Nepali men in addition to myself and Tim switching off holding down Zuma, holding the ropes that held the legs back knee,eling on the neck, and pushing down on the head. The veterinarian cleaned the dirt off the bone, sprinkled a disinfectant powder on the wound, and then tried to pull the bone back into the skin and line it up as best he could. With each cleaning, sprinkling, stretching, and setting attempt, Zuma would thrash in reaction to the pain. I watched the veterinarian and yelled, “Get ready!” with each moment I knew would cause him to fight. Laxman would then repeat my yelling in Nepali to ready the men.
We were at this for hours. Not what seemed like hours, but literally hours when H.A.R.T. arrived. Two white people and two Nepali men came out of the truck they pulled up in. I looked at the white man and asked if he was the veterinarian. He didn’t understand me, and so I went to the woman. She pointed to the Nepali man who came out of the truck and said, “He is.” My heart sank again as I feared we would have more pain for this pony with whom I had built such trust.
After some discussion and relief from my worry that this was a veterinarian who could really help, they injected Zuma with a tranquilizer that knocked him out so well that he didn’t need anyone holding him down any longer. We discussed putting him down again, and a policeman had me sign a piece of paper with a statement written in Nepali on it. Laxman explained later that this was the order to put Zuma down that Razu, his cousin, and I signed.
The Nepali people practice both Hinduism and Buddhism. They don’t believe in harming other creatures to the point where mosquitoes are safe from a swat during a blood draw. They don’t like animals to suffer from pain, but they also do not take it upon themselves to end an animal's life. For Zuma to be put down, we would need to go through a process similar to the one Doc had to go through with the mare’s owner, only with a bit more red tape. Tim and I both said that we would be happy to inject the drug that would end Zuma’s suffering since we were from another country and both had experience giving intravenous shots. The debate had gone on between myself and Laxman, Tim and Razu, Tim and Laxman, myself and Razu, and with the veterinarian before H.A.R.T. arrived.
I looked up into the hotel we were in front of and saw a few official-looking men sitting at a long table in what appeared to be the restaurant portion. They sat calmly with Razu, his cousin, and Laxman at the table in an earnest discussion. I realized at that point that they had found the driver and perhaps the trucking company and were trying to resolve the compensation for hitting the pony and damaging Razu’s property and livelihood. The men on the other side of Laxman and Razu stood up and walked away.
The angry mob developed around Zuma as he lay there in a deep sleep, hopefully free from the pain he was experiencing before the tranquilizers. I saw a Nepali man in a blue shirt walking away from a portion of the crowd with an angry look. He would stop, and Laxman and Razu would speak to him harshly, then follow him as he walked away again. The crowd around the man grew and grew, and they stopped in parts of the street, then on the side in front of the neighboring buildings, and then in the street again. The police had arrived long before as we struggled with the first veterinarian to keep the peace and manage the developing crowd. As time passed, law enforcement arrived, and the crowd grew even more significant.
I sat down finally after hours of struggling with Zuma and, in a moment, felt the pain from the fall I had taken. The adrenaline was, at that point, wearing off. I spoke with the volunteer woman with H.A.R.T. about the situation while the crowd battled with the driver. She explained that Zuma couldn’t be put down until the problem with the driver was resolved. He had insurance but felt the horse could live since the damage caused wasn’t fatal. Knowing what I know and Michelle's experience as a veterinarian of dogs and cats (she hadn’t worked with horses in 10 years), we both knew that Zuma needed to be put down.
After an hour or so of the crowd moving around the premises and Michelle and I talking, I looked at her and said, “Is he about due for another shot of tranqs?” she replied, “Yeah, it seems like it’s been a while and he’s handling it well.” She added, “We’re waiting for that moment when he struggles so we know he’s due for another.” Just as she finished her sentence, Zuma thrashed around, and the Nepali men jumped to him to hold him down again. Michelle said, “Looks like that time is now.” she jumped up with the shot of tranquilizers in her hand and ran over to give him another shot.
I sat there on the steps in the front of the hotel for another hour with Tim as we watched the crowd continue to argue with the driver. At one point, an old Nepali woman approached the man and began yelling at him in Nepali. Tim and I laughed at the events that were unfolding before our eyes. A lovely woman from the hotel gave us some oranges and apples to share, and Tim decided to grab something for us to eat since it was 3:00 pm, and we had been there since roughly 9:30 am. He rode his bike back with two small pizzas in his hand, and I walked into the hotel to wash off the feces and blood that covered my hands before attempting to eat.
After some time, Zuma began to have moments of waking up and thrashing around. His legs were still tied up, but at this point, no one was holding him down, so the Nepali men ran over each time to hold him. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere with his legs tied up and still under the influence of the tranquilizers, so I just sat there and watched. When it had been another couple of hours, I realized he would start to come out of his sleep, and the results of him waking up still tied with not enough men to hold him down would be disastrous. I walked over to him and asked anyone who could understand me to get the veterinarian for another dose of tranquilizers. No one seemed to know who I was talking about or where the veterinarian had gone. Tim finally got some answers that the veterinarian had left the scene with the drugs. He called him on the phone, and the man refused to get involved and got off the line with him.
I sat there on the edge of the concrete garbage bin that the hotel used just 5 feet away from Zuma as he began to thrash from time to time. Tim walked off and talked to whoever would communicate with him and came back to tell me that they refused to put Zuma down or give him anything as it was then in the trucking company’s hands. They believed the pony could live just fine and refused to pay Razu for the damages and let the horse's suffering end. There was nothing we could do.
My eyes teared up again. I just stared at Zuma lying there as the crowd had gotten so big I had to look through the legs and arms of the people standing around. There was a festival with all of the Nepali women that Laxman’s sister-in-law and my best friend (I call her my “Nepali Sister”) Niishaa had attended with many of the women from the hotel's area. She looked at me through the crowd, and I started to cry. She came over, sat beside me, put her right arm around me, and gently rubbed my shoulder. She talked briefly about the day, and I expressed frustration. She told me that perhaps it was time for me to go back home to the hotel. She asked if I had eaten (Nepalis show love and healing with food), to which I told her about the few things I had eaten. She encouraged me to leave, but I didn’t feel right leaving Zuma alone. The thought of him thrashing around and waking up exhausted and in pain from all that he had been through that day was overwhelming me. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t feel right leaving him. Niishaa spoke to the other Nepali women in their nice festival clothes, “Jam,” which means “Let’s go” in Nepali, and they walked off.
Tim came up to me, and we talked about perhaps suffocating the horse or doing something to end the life quickly, but with the vast crowd there, we couldn’t do anything without them knowing and us getting into a heap of trouble. So he convinced me to finally leave, but we headed into town to a nearby restaurant I frequent often. I could see Zuma still laying there with the men around him as the sun set, and eventually, the darkness blanketed the scene so that I could no longer see. I was so exhausted from the day that I kept laying my head on the table as Tim and I made small talk by recapping the day's events.
I will forever remember the fun little pony Zuma who had fought in him and had come to develop a trusting and respectful relationship with me. Razu and I have spoken since, and I apologize for all that happened. I was told that it is not in the Nepali way to blame me for what happened. No matter how badly I feel or how much I wish I had not gone into town that day, an accident is an accident. I will continue to work with Razu and his other ponies; although they all are in great shape and do so well with the guests that ride them, I don’t think he will need me. Perhaps I can enjoy a nice ride or help him if/when he buys another pony to replace Zuma.
The veterinarian arrived: a beacon of hope amidst the gathering storm
During what seemed like an hour or so, Razu had returned, and I had removed Zuma’s saddle and untied the rope we used for the reins to make a halter for him so that I could remove the bridle as well. A nice Chinese couple brought me a water bottle and helped Tim out as much as possible. The crowd of people wanting to help brought over a woman’s sweater, telling me to tie the leg up, cutting off the bleeding. Knowing that Zuma was difficult to handle in a normal situation, I wouldn’t allow them to try to touch the broken leg without any tranquilizer. A flailing horse in pain is dangerous, and I didn’t want anyone else getting hurt. A friend of the family at Hidden Paradise drove by on his motorcycle and stopped to look along with the rest of the crowd that was forming. I made eye contact with him and said, “A truck hit us.” He looked concerned and then drove off after a bit, but came back and handed me his phone, saying, “Laxman.” I told him, “I can’t,” meaning I couldn’t talk, but he insisted, so I grabbed the phone and spoke to him. He was putting on his shoes and coming down despite me telling him I was fine and he didn’t need to. He showed up shortly after.A large Nepali man drove up eventually with another man in tow as Razu talked to Tim, who told me that this was the veterinarian. Tim still hadn’t gotten a hold of Scott, but they did get a hold of H.A.R.T., the non-profit clinic that spays and neuters and provides care for the dogs and cats in Pokhara, though they couldn’t bring it to us for quite a while. The veterinarian rolled up his sleeves and spoke in Nepali for a bit, and then Razu looked at me and said that we needed to get the horse to the ground. Tim and I were so insistent on Zuma being put down and out of his misery that I fought what would happen. We couldn’t get this horse forced to the ground. What were they going to do?
The veterinarian I had worked for over 20 years ago had a mare come in one day with a hairline fracture just coming up through the third metacarpal (The hind leg). Dr. Max Nichols (or “Doc” as I called him) had discussed with the mare owners that she would never be able to be ridden again and her quality of life wouldn’t be excellent. The hind leg bears most of the weight, and the healing process would be long and painful. Since in the U.S., the laws were set that a veterinarian cannot put the animal down without the owner's consent, all they can do is advise but then follow the owner’s wishes that the mare was to have the leg repaired and the process of healing would follow. I was present during the surgery as Doc set the bone with two long bars and several pins screwed through the bone to hold it tight. He left the wound with tubes in it so that it could drain whatever infection was going to develop and placed a light wrap of a cast over it to protect it. From there, my job was to take a turkey baster, flu, and the leg inside the cast with Betadine and provide daily shots of Penicillin to help fight infection. The mare had rolled in her stall a few days later, smashing the leg against the wall and breaking apart the leg more and, in the process, bent the pins that were screwed in. Doc again warned them of the horse not having any quality of life, and even more so now that the horse had broken the leg further. They insisted that he set the bone again, and into surgery, we went. I was again following up with daily washes and Penicillin shots. Several days had passed, and the mare rolled in her stall again, breaking the pins and the leg. The owners again insisted on Doc setting the bone, and we went into surgery for a third time. This time, the leg was a beaten pulp. There was nothing left of any substance that could ever heal up to hold the horse properly, allowing her any sort of relief from the pain and stiffness she would endure. Doc spoke to the owners about the condition of the leg and was more insistent that they consider the life that the mare would have at the expense of their fear of grieving her death. They spent a night outside of her stall and, in the morning, made the decision to put her down and end her suffering. After the horse had been put to sleep permanently, I was tasked with removing the pins from the leg. Here’s where this story gets graphic, so feel free to skip to the following paragraph: Despite all efforts to fight infection, the horse's leg was a mass of puss and stunk of death. The maggots from flies laying their eggs in her leg were crawling around, eating away at an utterly dead limb on a once alive animal. Her leg was literally rotten to death as she was still alive.
Endeavoring to Rescue Zuma
I remembered that mare, as I was explained by Razu and Laxman, that the veterinarian was going to set the bone. I looked over towards the lake across the road, and a man was splitting bamboo to be used as a cast. These people didn’t even have the solid pins or the ability to cast the leg properly as Doc had, but still, they wanted to set a bone that was entirely severed in half. I argued it as long as I could, but being that I was not making the decision, I succumbed to the reality of the situation and did my best to get the horse to lie down. Zuma had lost a lot of blood and was looking like he wanted to lie down. I put my head into his and told him it was okay to lie down. I rocked him back and forth and then pushed him off balance to encourage him to go down independently. He gave in a few times, but then the pony that had fought came out and stood his ground. The veterinarian brought over a rope, and I realized we would have to take him down at that point.There are many ways to drop a horse by tying the leg up, and I asked how he wanted to do this. After I realized the veterinarian had no idea how, other than just tying a leg or two, I helped them tie up one front leg and a hind leg. I looked at Laxman and told him that when the horse goes down, someone needs to sit on his neck, and someone else needs to hold his head to keep him from coming up. He nodded and then spoke to a few of the Nepali men who were willing to help. We quickly pulled on the legs as the horse rocked off balance, and then I pushed the head and neck down. I yelled, “Get on his neck,” and “Pull those legs up.” We had the three legs bound up, and Laxman and I both were on the neck and head. Zuma was down.
I was wearing a “wife beater” shirt since my ride was only supposed to be an hour at most. With the sun blazing down on us all and the temperature reaching nearly 85° F, Tim handed me a light scarf to put on my shoulders to protect me from sunburn. I pulled the scarf off of me and placed it over Zumba’s eye to keep him calm. As I realized what we were about to do and that the care following would be more critical than the care I provided for the mare, I turned to Razu and said, “We can get iodine?” (since I knew Betadine was most likely not available) and he nodded with the response “Pharmacy.”
The veterinarian placed a needle into Zumba’s neck with what looked like saline and pressed the solution into the pony. I am pretty confident that whatever he gave the pony didn’t relieve any pain as he thrashed and struggled at every moment he could. Each thrashed, the exposed bone ground into the dirt, and the attached limb flailed about.
In all, there were roughly 7 or more Nepali men in addition to myself and Tim switching off holding down Zuma, holding the ropes that held the legs back knee,eling on the neck, and pushing down on the head. The veterinarian cleaned the dirt off the bone, sprinkled a disinfectant powder on the wound, and then tried to pull the bone back into the skin and line it up as best he could. With each cleaning, sprinkling, stretching, and setting attempt, Zuma would thrash in reaction to the pain. I watched the veterinarian and yelled, “Get ready!” with each moment I knew would cause him to fight. Laxman would then repeat my yelling in Nepali to ready the men.
We were at this for hours. Not what seemed like hours, but literally hours when H.A.R.T. arrived. Two white people and two Nepali men came out of the truck they pulled up in. I looked at the white man and asked if he was the veterinarian. He didn’t understand me, and so I went to the woman. She pointed to the Nepali man who came out of the truck and said, “He is.” My heart sank again as I feared we would have more pain for this pony with whom I had built such trust.
After some discussion and relief from my worry that this was a veterinarian who could really help, they injected Zuma with a tranquilizer that knocked him out so well that he didn’t need anyone holding him down any longer. We discussed putting him down again, and a policeman had me sign a piece of paper with a statement written in Nepali on it. Laxman explained later that this was the order to put Zuma down that Razu, his cousin, and I signed.
The Nepali people practice both Hinduism and Buddhism. They don’t believe in harming other creatures to the point where mosquitoes are safe from a swat during a blood draw. They don’t like animals to suffer from pain, but they also do not take it upon themselves to end an animal's life. For Zuma to be put down, we would need to go through a process similar to the one Doc had to go through with the mare’s owner, only with a bit more red tape. Tim and I both said that we would be happy to inject the drug that would end Zuma’s suffering since we were from another country and both had experience giving intravenous shots. The debate had gone on between myself and Laxman, Tim and Razu, Tim and Laxman, myself and Razu, and with the veterinarian before H.A.R.T. arrived.
Tensions and Tranquilizers: Zuma, the Mob, and the Fallen Pony
When we were dealing with Zuma and the veterinarian, a mob that was irate over the truck driver hitting the pony had formed. I was asked repeatedly if I was the rider as Tim and I asked people to step back and give us room. At one point, I told Tim, Laxman, and Razu that the driver was fortunate that I was in Zuma and not some terrified tourist who had never been on a horse before. Not only was I able to correct the horse enough to limit the damage (though at this point, I began to wish the damage had been fatal to avoid the prolonged, drawn-out torture), but I am experienced enough to handle the situation following the event.I looked up into the hotel we were in front of and saw a few official-looking men sitting at a long table in what appeared to be the restaurant portion. They sat calmly with Razu, his cousin, and Laxman at the table in an earnest discussion. I realized at that point that they had found the driver and perhaps the trucking company and were trying to resolve the compensation for hitting the pony and damaging Razu’s property and livelihood. The men on the other side of Laxman and Razu stood up and walked away.
The angry mob developed around Zuma as he lay there in a deep sleep, hopefully free from the pain he was experiencing before the tranquilizers. I saw a Nepali man in a blue shirt walking away from a portion of the crowd with an angry look. He would stop, and Laxman and Razu would speak to him harshly, then follow him as he walked away again. The crowd around the man grew and grew, and they stopped in parts of the street, then on the side in front of the neighboring buildings, and then in the street again. The police had arrived long before as we struggled with the first veterinarian to keep the peace and manage the developing crowd. As time passed, law enforcement arrived, and the crowd grew even more significant.
I sat down finally after hours of struggling with Zuma and, in a moment, felt the pain from the fall I had taken. The adrenaline was, at that point, wearing off. I spoke with the volunteer woman with H.A.R.T. about the situation while the crowd battled with the driver. She explained that Zuma couldn’t be put down until the problem with the driver was resolved. He had insurance but felt the horse could live since the damage caused wasn’t fatal. Knowing what I know and Michelle's experience as a veterinarian of dogs and cats (she hadn’t worked with horses in 10 years), we both knew that Zuma needed to be put down.
After an hour or so of the crowd moving around the premises and Michelle and I talking, I looked at her and said, “Is he about due for another shot of tranqs?” she replied, “Yeah, it seems like it’s been a while and he’s handling it well.” She added, “We’re waiting for that moment when he struggles so we know he’s due for another.” Just as she finished her sentence, Zuma thrashed around, and the Nepali men jumped to him to hold him down again. Michelle said, “Looks like that time is now.” she jumped up with the shot of tranquilizers in her hand and ran over to give him another shot.
The Unresolved Struggle to End Zuma's Suffering
Michelle talked to me about the next steps with Zuma before she was off with the rest of the H.A.R.T. crew. She mentioned that they could not put Zuma down at that time without someone giving the go-ahead. There was still some debate with the truck driver that needed to be resolved. So she was leaving another 2 doses of tranquilizers with the veterinarian that had arrived before they were there for him to administer when Zuma came out of the dose he had then. She also left the euthanasia drugs for when they were ready to make that decision. Tim had her number if we needed anything, and then she and the volunteers packed up their things and drove out.I sat there on the steps in the front of the hotel for another hour with Tim as we watched the crowd continue to argue with the driver. At one point, an old Nepali woman approached the man and began yelling at him in Nepali. Tim and I laughed at the events that were unfolding before our eyes. A lovely woman from the hotel gave us some oranges and apples to share, and Tim decided to grab something for us to eat since it was 3:00 pm, and we had been there since roughly 9:30 am. He rode his bike back with two small pizzas in his hand, and I walked into the hotel to wash off the feces and blood that covered my hands before attempting to eat.
After some time, Zuma began to have moments of waking up and thrashing around. His legs were still tied up, but at this point, no one was holding him down, so the Nepali men ran over each time to hold him. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere with his legs tied up and still under the influence of the tranquilizers, so I just sat there and watched. When it had been another couple of hours, I realized he would start to come out of his sleep, and the results of him waking up still tied with not enough men to hold him down would be disastrous. I walked over to him and asked anyone who could understand me to get the veterinarian for another dose of tranquilizers. No one seemed to know who I was talking about or where the veterinarian had gone. Tim finally got some answers that the veterinarian had left the scene with the drugs. He called him on the phone, and the man refused to get involved and got off the line with him.
I sat there on the edge of the concrete garbage bin that the hotel used just 5 feet away from Zuma as he began to thrash from time to time. Tim walked off and talked to whoever would communicate with him and came back to tell me that they refused to put Zuma down or give him anything as it was then in the trucking company’s hands. They believed the pony could live just fine and refused to pay Razu for the damages and let the horse's suffering end. There was nothing we could do.
My eyes teared up again. I just stared at Zuma lying there as the crowd had gotten so big I had to look through the legs and arms of the people standing around. There was a festival with all of the Nepali women that Laxman’s sister-in-law and my best friend (I call her my “Nepali Sister”) Niishaa had attended with many of the women from the hotel's area. She looked at me through the crowd, and I started to cry. She came over, sat beside me, put her right arm around me, and gently rubbed my shoulder. She talked briefly about the day, and I expressed frustration. She told me that perhaps it was time for me to go back home to the hotel. She asked if I had eaten (Nepalis show love and healing with food), to which I told her about the few things I had eaten. She encouraged me to leave, but I didn’t feel right leaving Zuma alone. The thought of him thrashing around and waking up exhausted and in pain from all that he had been through that day was overwhelming me. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t feel right leaving him. Niishaa spoke to the other Nepali women in their nice festival clothes, “Jam,” which means “Let’s go” in Nepali, and they walked off.
Tim came up to me, and we talked about perhaps suffocating the horse or doing something to end the life quickly, but with the vast crowd there, we couldn’t do anything without them knowing and us getting into a heap of trouble. So he convinced me to finally leave, but we headed into town to a nearby restaurant I frequent often. I could see Zuma still laying there with the men around him as the sun set, and eventually, the darkness blanketed the scene so that I could no longer see. I was so exhausted from the day that I kept laying my head on the table as Tim and I made small talk by recapping the day's events.
The Bittersweet Farewell to Zuma and Moving Forward with Razu's Ponies
I awoke at the hotel the following day and headed out for breakfast as usual. As usual, I didn’t see Laxman sitting in front of the kitchen/dining area, so I asked where he had gone. Shree (his cousin) told me he had gone to Razu’s to dig a large hole for the horse. They planned on finally euthanizing Zuma and laying him to rest in a burial on the property. I was relieved that the decision had finally been made to end his suffering and that Zuma didn’t have to go on with a broken leg and in pain for as long as the mare did all those years back in the U.S.I will forever remember the fun little pony Zuma who had fought in him and had come to develop a trusting and respectful relationship with me. Razu and I have spoken since, and I apologize for all that happened. I was told that it is not in the Nepali way to blame me for what happened. No matter how badly I feel or how much I wish I had not gone into town that day, an accident is an accident. I will continue to work with Razu and his other ponies; although they all are in great shape and do so well with the guests that ride them, I don’t think he will need me. Perhaps I can enjoy a nice ride or help him if/when he buys another pony to replace Zuma.