You don't always get the choice. When Tristan went, in February, it was Sunday night, and dark. The vet thought a slaughterman would be a good idea, so he rang the two local slaughtermen - one said he couldn't do it because he was all alone, no-one to help, the other refused to come out. So vet rang the hunt kennels, and they turned up, a man and a girl - it was about 10 pm by then, and they'd been out for the evening, but they came straight away and they couldn't have been kinder and gentler, they persuaded me not to watch while they loaded him, it wasn't pretty, but the actual bit with the gun was very swift, there was virtually no blood, and the other horses, in another part of the field, weren't bothered at all ....
Given the choice, that's what I would have preferred, anyway. I don't know if he'd ever hunted, he didn't with me, but I'd rather think of him going to the hounds than being cremated and making a tiny bit of pollution and global warming.
It's very, very sad, though, however old the horse. I'm glad it was swift, though; he was happy right up until the last day. He'd been with me nearly twenty years, and I don't know how old he was, but he outlived his teeth.