It is a remarkable thing to see how Rocky, a blind pony, maneuvers his way through life. He walks a well-trodden path to the barn, to the creek below the pasture, out to the fallen trees where he scratches himself and brushes his coat. When I come to see him, I pull the car up so he can hear the engine. I start talking as I walk to the fence, then jump over and stand out in the grass. I say the same words, hey Rocky, it’s me, Jon, I came to see you. How are you doing? For the first few months, Rocky would run from me and hide on the far side of the barn. Now when he hears me, his ears go up and he comes running, but in a circular, not straight direction. I realize that he does not know where I am, so I keep talking and hold an apple out, and in a minute or so, he comes walking up slowly, his nose out.

When he smells the apple, he take sit from me and he splits it in pieces and drops the pieces on the ground. Then he puts his nose down finds each piece and chews it slowly. Now, when he is done eating, if I am silent he comes towards me, swinging his head back and forth. I start talking again and he edges close, and then I reach out and brush him and stroke him, which he appreciates. Rocky knows where all of the fences are – he doesn’t get too close to them, and has worn paths to take him to the barn, the water and his scratching trees. He will wander off of these paths to graze, or to lie down and sun himself. He seems completed contented and within himself. He is a symbol of grace and acceptance to me. I sense he is aware that the human he lived with is gone, no longer present. I see no signs of mourning, sluggishness, or anything I would call grief. He eats, drinks and moves very briskly around.  He sees so much more than most living things, including me.