What Dante Taught Me about Dying (and Living)
His face looked out over the advertisement about him on EquineMarket.com––bright, happy, with a kind of “What’s next?!” enthusiasm that I grew to know. “Lusitano, 7 years old, must have experienced rider…” it read. I responded immediately and requested a phone conversation with the seller, “I must warn you,” she said carefully, “he has a rather…shall we say…distinct Roman nose.” I flew out to California the next day to see him.
Usually when trying out a horse for the first time, I’m careful. I spend time on the ground sensing into their temperament, and finally ease onto their back once I feel I’ve been clearly invited. It can be a little scary because in spite of what the seller tells you––that the horse is ‘bomb proof’, that they’ve never bucked a day in their life, that they have zero flaws or issues (if such a horse existed, he wouldn’t be for sale) ––you never know what the horse has in store for you.
In Dante’s case, the seller was more tentative. She’d been hired as a third party by the owner––Cavalia ––to sell him and knew little (or maybe, disclosed little) about why he was no longer suited. She cautioned me of negative behavior, and implied that only a few could handle him.
But when I led him to the large arena, something in me immediately felt free and we began playing and engaging as if we’d known each other for years. The following week he stepped off the huge horse van to his new home with me in Santa Fe.
As an equestrian, every once in a while, perhaps once in a lifetime, one has the privilege to own a horse that embodies both exceptional athleticism and profound compassionate heart. Dante was that horse. What made him so was a remarkable capacity for joy, and a generosity that made him a delight to ride and play with. He taught me the art of liberty work––the form of gymnastic improv alongside a horse on the ground. Brave and confident, he safely carried me, rain and shine, into the wilderness, never refusing an adventure, always game to discover something new.
Dante taught me about living. He taught me to honor my need for true companionship and not to settle for less. Prior to meeting Dante, I attracted horses (and people) with broken wings––traumatized and complicated. I believed that because I had the skill to handle them, I should do it, especially if doing it promised something meaningful. Since my youth I would swing a leg over just about anything so long as it meant I could be near a horse. I was willing (perhaps even expected?) to take on real risk and often unnecessarily hard challenges to have companionship.
I remember my mother taking me to a barn when I was about eight or nine. In those days you could rent a horse by the hour or more and just take off alone without any supervision. The cowboy looked me up and down––Pall Mall cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth––and said, “So…. they say you’re a real good rider…,” then calling out over his shoulder to the wrangler, “Hank, go get Buck. I think we finally have someone here who can handle ‘im.” Buck lived up to his name. Any time I asked him to do something he didn’t want to do, he’d snort and buck and finish it off with a huge life-threatening rear. The cowboy was right. I could handle him and learned how to tolerate his resistances so we could gallop through the corn fields. Buck taught me that I could handle anything. So I would do just that––handle anything––just as long as it got me close to what I loved. Any messed-up horse, person or circumstance I would take on and tolerate.
Dante taught me that just because I was masterful, didn’t mean I should take on hard things. In fact he taught me that because I was masterful, I deserved good things. Safe and talented horses. Safe and considerate humans. Safe and supportive circumstances. Dante’s coming into my life heralded the beginning of the end of my “I can and should handle anything” phase. And though it took another seven years to unravel, Dante remained at my side the whole time teaching me to live in harmony, peace and balance. It is not overly dramatic to say that he saved my life, by teaching me how to live. He taught me that I don’t need to settle for Buck because there’s a Dante waiting for me.
In the fall of 2021, I began noticing small tumors on Dante’s body. Our vet Dr. Nolan examined him for a long while in silence. He pulled the stethoscope away from his ears and said, “Well kiddo, you may as well just ride this one out.” That’s country vetspeak for, “Your horse has a terminal illness and there’s nothing we can do.”
I made friends with denial that year. But we also did all we could do to extend his life, and perhaps by some miracle, save it. Every herb, mushroom extract, body work modality and intervention we could think of, we gave him. He brightened and with it so did my hopes. What I didn’t realize then but do now in the aftermath is that he was dying. In the secret realm of his internal world, tumors were quickly metastasizing throughout Dante’s body, and most dangerously inside his intestines. Without my realizing it, for two years, he was now teaching me how to die.
Dante taught me that dying is another form of living. He showed up each and every day, alert, present and whole-hearted. Just like before, he was up for every adventure. Each morning I would look out my window to see him and he best friend Cisco romping about the paddock, bucking and playing gladiators. And each day he’d greet me with his “what’s next?!” expression, looking forward to our rides and our dances in the arena. Instead of diminishing, he only became more radiant. It was as if the turning point in his health gave him full permission to be fully himself.
But occasionally the cancer would rear its head and remind us of his ordeal. The tumors impacted his digestion and on a fairly regular basis, he would colic (a life-threatening syndrome that ties up a horse’s intestinal tract). Though his treatment got him through acute flare-ups, we knew it was only a matter of time.
A month before Dante passed, I began to notice that we could not maintain his weight. His ribs began to show. His fur was getting dull, and he played with Cisco a little less. But my denial held strong. Our rides into the forest remained joyful, and he stayed powerfully present. The day before he died, I walked past him on the way to the barn. He was looking at me intently. There was something different about his look and I paused. We stood there together for a moment. I know now that on that morning he had made a decision. His work with me was done. I was now safe, loved, and living the life I deserved. I had received what he had come to give me.
The next day Dante began to colic. Only this time it was different. I called my dear friend Mary Ann Menetrey, a horse healer, coach and Dante’s primary care practitioner. “Can you come over? I think he’s in trouble.” She examined him and said, “You gotta get him to the hospital.”
He loaded into the trailer with such calmness. And as I tied him up, he looked back at all the horses in the paddock and let out a soft, warm, reassuring whinny. I knew at that moment that he knew he was never coming back to the ranch. Later, at the clinic at midnight, he died.
But here’s the deal. His teaching did not stop there. Dante’s presence remained at the ranch for several days. During that time, numerous synchronicities and signs appeared that were unmistakably communications from him. On the third day after his passing, there was a sudden flurry of activity in the paddocks. I raced outside to see what was causing the commotion, to witness all the horses race to a corner of the arena overlooking the entrance to the trails Dante and I used to ride. Artemis, the lead mare, and Cisco began to call out repeatedly as if one of their herd members was disappearing up the path and away into the mountains. Thunder Bear, EQUUS’ Cultural Educator and Pueblo Native American, told me that the spirit lingers for several days after death, and then moves on to other realms on the third or forth day. Dante was moving on, and the herd knew it was so.
A wide swath of Dante’s mane lays on my alter. Dante continues to stay connected to me, teaching me that death does not interrupt a relationship, only changes it. It is only our misunderstanding of death that makes us feel separate from those who have moved on. But when I have the courage to feel through the pangs of unspeakable grief and reach towards Dante, he is right there. So are Pablo my dog, Blue, Cimarron, and my father. Dante, in all his wisdom, has opened the door to infinity, where he continues to teach me to live in balance, harmony, and joy.
Over the years, Dante taught many people important, essential, life-giving and life-saving things. If you are one of the many who received those gifts from Dante, my hope is that you continue to allow him to touch you and teach you in meaningful ways. If you slow down and have the courage to enter into the grief of your loss, you’ll find him there, waiting for you, ears pricked forward in that characteristic gesture of his, “What’s next?!”
Please feel free to leave your condolences and cherished memories of Dante. Your shared moments and kind words are a treasured comfort during this time.
