Some days seem more perfect than others; everything feels just right.

On that particular evening, the moon shone brightly in a postcard starry sky, throwing the dark shadows of trees over pristine snow in intricate designs as grandiose as cathedrals'.

It was Christmas Eve and I was about to retire for the night when the telephone rang.

"Hello, Ray Lavigne here. I have a problem at the stable. Look, I know it's Christmas and all that, and I feel really bad about disturbing you, but it's quite serious."

"What happened?" "One of my horses, a boarder, is badly hurt. He fell. I'd appreciate it if you could come right away."

I didn't argue, pulled my boots back on, put on a heavy coat, and left.

It wasn't the kind of call I enjoyed. Particularly at eleven p.m. on Christmas Eve. Besides, Ray had sounded strange over the phone. Diffident, guilty? I began to fear the worst.

His stable was close by and I got there in less than ten minutes. Ray was waiting for me on the porch, as still and white as a marble statue. He looked thoroughly dejected. Before letting me into the stable, he held the door ajar and mumbled something about being cautious. Two young men and a girl were already there; one of them the horse's owner, or so Ray told me.

They were very drunk.

Rather nonplussed, I pushed the heavy door wide open and went in. The stalls, like pews in a church, lined both sides of a fairly wide aisle and held about twenty horses. Most of them Quarter-Horse or Appaloosa saddle horses, with a few trotters "enjoying" a silent retirement far from the madding crowd of the racetrack.

I didn't like this kind of set up at the best of times. For the sake of an occasional canter, these animals spend most of their days confined in narrow stalls. In cold climates, such as Canada's, horses remain cooped up all winter, virtually motionless, incarcerated - the word is not too strong - in quarters ludicrously cramped considering their size. The suffering that these naturally gregarious creatures endure from such isolation, as well as lack of space and exercise is a fact that is often ignored.

In such confinement, horses end up exhibiting neurotic behavior patterns. They swing on their legs from side to side (Bear Tic Syndrome) from morning till night. They self-mutilate, biting their flank until they draw blood. Some grind their teeth constantly, or keep biting an object. Others masturbate frequently. These behavioral anomalies are well known and documented.

In the end saddle horses find themselves assigned to intensive reproduction - for serum or hormone collection - or sold by the pound on the horseflesh market.

In Ray's stable, at the end of the central aisle, one of the two intoxicated young men was holding on to a horse.

Drawing closer, I noticed the animal's very labored breathing. Blood was oozing from his nostrils and he kept his neck stretched down in an effort to catch his shallow and panting breath.

The girl and the second boy, both in their twenties, sat on bales of hay in front of the horse, a mostly empty case of beer by their feet. They kept pushing and shoving each other with loud drunken laughter, in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

A quick examination of the horse, whose name was Hemingway, revealed a large ugly wound on his chest. At least 6 inches in diameter, it was bleeding profusely. His gums were very pale, an indication he had already lost a lot of blood. He was obviously close to a state of shock and could barely stand.

I asked the young man who held on to Hemingway what had happened. He was so drunk he could hardly speak and I had to use patience and guessing to piece together his fractured tale. The three of them had decided to celebrate Christmas at the stable with a substantial supply of booze. Once enough of it had been consumed, they had the bright idea of taking Hemingway out for a ride. Taking turns, they had galloped Hemingway up and down the deserted road until the animal, slipping on the ice, had fallen on his knees and impaled himself on a slanting fence post.

Hemingway had managed to disentangle himself unaided, and the three revelers had brought him back - not without some difficulty - to the stable. Only then had they notified Ray who had called me at once.

The very sharp post had penetrated as far as the chest cavity, tearing main blood vessels and probably a lung as well. Although the prognosis for this type of injury may often be favorable, the circumstances of the case weighed heavily upon my resolve to put an end to Hemingway's life and misery.

This decision was one of the most painful of my fledgling career, and to this day I still wonder if I did the right thing. I don't think these young people, in the state they were in, realized how serious the injury was. I did my best to explain it to them, but they raised no objection to my decision. Ray came to help me, venting his indignation in a string of profanities.

I proceeded to euthanize Hemingway who fell on the straw like a statue knocked off its pedestal. I repacked my bag and left. A few days later, the three youngsters showed up together at the clinic to pay their bill, looking sober and somewhat sheepish. What was the point of giving them a sermon? They would remember Hemingway crucified for a mere canter on a picture-perfect starry night. Yes, they would remember Hemingway and so would I, for the rest of my life.