On the last day of a ride through the Sierra de Cazorla, we have ridden 17 miles.
Dusty and hot, we untack in a pine glade where we will feed, water and rope in our eight Andalusian horses for the night. Vultures circle high on the thermals. All is quiet.
Out of nowhere, a scream rings out. ‘A scorpion has bitten my bottom!’ shrieks Karen, wrenching her trousers to flick away the beast. It is in fact a giant striped centipede, but still.
At the same time, a grey mare, Bailarína, starts pawing the ground in the ominous way that signals colic. If she lies down, she will twist her gut and may die.
All hands on deck: Karen must get to hospital, and José, our Spanish guide, must get an injection from the vet to relax Bailarína’s muscles.
A few weeks before this ride, my dog had a fatal injection, when she is good and death – but is there such a thing as a good death?
