When I went down to feed the horses on Monday morning, I found my husband's Arabian mare lying on her side next to the pasture fence, her head sweaty, neck and chest drenched. She was shivering in the frigid mountain air. Eyes half closed, the usually full-of-piss-and-vinegar Arabian horse was like a pale reflection of herself. Almost a ghost. It took me a few minutes to coax the little girl her her feet and up to the house.

By the time Doc arrived, Miss Morningstar was doing better. She'd only been running a slight fever, and we'd covered her with a polar fleece sheet to fight off the chill. Doc seemed to think that she'd had a colic during the night. I imagined the little horse out there beneath the white hard stars with the temperature so cold it nips with shiny, silver teeth, not feeling well, probably wondering where in the hell we were. And all she could do was hunker down and wait through the tummy ache until the morning.

Dennis stayed home with her all day long, never leaving her side. I called to check on her mid-morning and was happy to hear that she'd pooped and had some water, was even nibbling a little hay. As I left the house for work that morning after going down to the barn to say goodbye to husband and horse and see if they had everything they needed, all I could think of was the worry lines furrowing my husband's face. If anything happened to that mare, I thought, he'd just be crushed.

And so on this March morning, we faced down the age-old question of life and death, eye to eye with an Arabian mare. Having a herd of horses, with their propensity for hurting themselves or each other or catching something floating by in the air, I sometimes sense the old dread question hanging around a little too close for comfort, like an unwelcome visitor.