Harold had to go to Washington DC on business, and because this spring is one of sudden snow storms and surprise ice storms, he had quite a bit of trouble making it there. I think all total he was booked on six different flights going there, but ended up on a new set of flights, after using a shuttle bus to Kansas City. While our local airport is trying hard to attract business, they have one of the poorest 'on time' ratings in the industry, and will cancel flights for reasons as stupid as "the flight crew did not get enough sleep".Wait, you say, who would want to fly with a pilot that is dog tired? There are good reasons for safety regulations like these.
Yes, sure there are. The problem was they knew this the night before, more than 12 hours in advance. I don't know anyone who needs to have more than 12 hours of sleep.
But back to the story.
Harold did finally make it to DC, and by this time his phone was nearly depleted and of course he had forgotten the charger at home. Not that this would be a problem, ordinarily. Those who know me that I have no affinity whatsoever for the phone. I plain hate the thing, and loathe to answer it, and won't make a phone call if I can think of any other way of communicating, including smoke signals.
On Wednesday morning I went to do chores, about 10 minutes late. When Harold is away, the dogs won't let me sleep. They think any noise is related to Harold's return. Then they bark to alert each other to this event. Every twenty minutes one of them will hear something that means "Daddy's home!" Still, right now I have no chores that need to be done on time to the minute, the sun was coming up, the day was mild, and I wasn't in too grumpy a mood, only in severe need of some caffeine.
When I got to the horse barn, I heard a horse banging her hooves, which is what they will do when they want to hurry things along. Sweetpea was fine, donkey was waiting by his bowl, and Brownie was standing over her bowl, only covered in dirt, with a scraped up face. I poured her grain, and she pawed at the bowl, ripping it, and spilling the food. Brownie always eats, she lives for that grain. Something was wrong. I got the halter, led her outside where the light was better, got the dirt out of her eye, and noticed that she had been cast, down too close to a wall, and unable to get on her feet, until she had moved her body by flailing around, thus banging her head. It was superficial, unless she had actually hurt her brain, but in Brownie's case, that would hardly rob her of her appetite.
Brownie was very docile, but when I let her go, she pawed the ground, rolled, and looked wrong.
Colic!
But why?
She had not eaten anything bad or too much, and donkey and Sweetpea were fine. I went back to the house, called the vet and fed the dogs. Then I headed back out to the barn to walk Brownie until the vet could come. Colic is a bad belly ache and horses cannot handle pain. They cannot handle much of anything they can't outrun, really. I had nursed several horses through this before, but they had all gotten into the grain, and eaten too much. Anyhow, I got up there and Brownie was lying on her side, looking bloated and dead. She was not dead though, so I got her up, and walked her.
Dr. Ann came, pumped the horse full of analgesics, anti-inflammatory drugs, tubed her, then began pumping water followed by mineral oil into the horse. This should relieve gas pressure and flush out manure. If a horse passes gas or manure, they will likely get better. But Brownie did not.
We waited for a bit, and Brownie still did not want to eat, not even spring grass. I promised to update Dr. Ann by noon, at which time we would have to make a decision. Brownie is an old mare, rather fat, and if her colic was brought about by gas, she would get better, but if it was due to a twisted intestine, she was not even a good candidate for surgery, and that would cost a minimum of $5000 and then would still result in a dead horse, most like.
Horses are not worth anything anymore, because the animal rights idiots have shut down slaughterhouses that will process horses. A dead horse won't even be used for dog food. Your options as an owner are to bury them, burn them, or compost them. We had just gone through that with Chigger.
Anyhow, Brownie did not improve, she got worse. I called and emailed Harold and left messages, then called Dr. Ann again with the bad news. I told her to come whenever she had time, I would be out with Brownie.
Brownie was always Harold's horse. She loved him. He liked her. Together they made a decent pair. Brownie never liked me much, until that last day. She kept coming to me for what minimal comforts I could provide. I walked her, groomed her, cooled her down when she was dripping with sweat.
Dr. Ann returned, checked Brownie over and agreed, euthanasia was the kindest thing. Brownie was in tremendous pain and there was no improvement at all. This was not a trapped fart. We already knew a good spot for the job, so we had Brownie follow chigger. Dr. Ann managed to get Harold on the phone, he had borrowed a cell phone from a colleague. Brownie did not object. Her last day she was the most pleasant horse ever.
Afterward I loaded her with the tractor and brought her to the place where we interred Chigger. Even with that I had no trouble. I am rather good at transporting dead horses now. Not a skill I can brag about.
Sweetpea was screaming and hollering the rest of the day, donkey was quiet. I finally did get hold of Harold again, whose flights back were the ones he had booked, but delayed by a bit. Still, he made it home before the next storm.
I did bake him some brownies in Brownie's honor.
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