Our pack horse (his name was Horse) died when we reached Bumboret. He's lying with a tarp over him and the Kalashi people standing around hin. He had had a sore on his withers since crossing the Malakand. We had left the majority of our high mountain gear at a friend's fort where we had stayed just past the Malakand in Rangmama. We ponied horse bare backed after that, treating his back with boric acid and shots of oxi-tetracycline. After we came down the Lowari Pass we stayed a two nights at Drosh. There an animal husbanry clinic doctor gave Horse a shot of dis-coloured oxi-tetracycline from an opened bottle (we had run out of our supply). When his servant brought a fresh bottle from the bazaar we noticed that the fresh oxi-tetracycline was amber colour, not dark green like the opened bottle. From then on Horse went 'down hill' though we were traveling up hill. He died just after midnight after we arrived. Here is a snip from my journal...

"At a quarter to midnight I'm squatting outside the cook-house talking and smoking with the cook. He's an Afghan from up the valley in Nuristan. Ayesha and Habibullah are asleep in their respective rooms. Asadullah is laying in the field next to Horse, propped up by his saddle and covered with a blanket. I hear him call out to me. I go down and join him next to Horse.
"Horse just had some really bad convulsions." he says.
"Do you think he'll make it?" I ask.
"I don't know Noor. God, I wish now that I knew more about horse medicine. This is all my fault for not knowing more. I brought Horse into this, and I don't know enough to get him out."
"It's nobody's fault. These things happen. It's the way God wills it."
Horse gets up and we gently lead him as he walks himself. Then he starts to collapse again. He's falling against Herc and Herc can't get away because he's at the end of the rope to which he is staked.
"Pull him Noor!" Asadullah says hurriedly, pushing him with his shoulder to try to keep him from falling onto Herc. Asad pulls out the Hartfield knife he wears on a sheathe hanging around his neck and with one sweep he slices through the thick rope, freeing Hercules. Horse falls on the grass. He's laying on his side and kicking violently. The cook comes down and squats beside us.
"You should cut a hole in his stomach to let the air out." he tells me in Pashtu. I translate this gristly information to Asadullah.
"I've never heard of that." he tells me. "I'm afraid it will kill him. I still think he can make it. If he can just make it through the night."
Horse stops kicking and holds his head back stiffly. Low raspy breaths come from deep down in his throat. It's his death rattle.
"Cut his throat now." the cook tells me. "Halal him, and then the Muslim people up the hill can eat him."
I tell Asadullah what the cook has said but he can't hear. We both feel that some miracle will pull him through and he'll be recovering in the morning. But it's not to be. It's too late. He's dead.
"He's dead." Asadullah said in English.
"He's dead." the cook and I echoed in Pashtu.
"I can't believe he's dead." Asadullah said dazed.
"You should have halaled him," the cook went on, "then the Muslim people could have eaten him. Well, no matter, it's not a waste. The Kafir people don't care about halal, the eaters of filth, they will eat him anyway."
That, I didn't bother to translate for Asadullah.
"We covered Horse with our plastic tarp and a rain poncho. A beautiful silver full moon was rising over the mountains, heralded by a pearly glow on the mountain tops. A few silvery lined clouds high-lighted the star studded sky. The moon and starlight reflected diamonds in the ripples of the stream as it washed over white stones below us down the moss covered stone strewn river banks. Horse's body was laying there on the greensward, half a ton of lifeless stiffening meat. Life had fled him as the sun had fled the day's sky. The night was still, quiet, and peaceful. It was seven minutes after midnight. Asadullah and I watched the silent moon rising, not talking.