Issues → January/February 2008 → Features →

Cold Snap and a Sick Horse

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(page 3 of 3)

Nibbs's head hung even lower when we backed him out of the trailer in Manchester. He hadn't made any manure. Steam rose from under his blanket and crystallized in the freezing night air. Our only comfort was the glow of light from inside the animal hospital, where we hoped he could get some relief.

The veterinarian on call, a tall, efficient woman, consulted with Gregg and checked Nibbs's vital signs. He was staggering now, barely able to stand. She listened through her stethoscope for gut noises. "We should tap it," she said.

Gregg nodded. I held Nibbs's head and stroked him while they shaved a small patch and scrubbed it with disinfectant. They tapped his side with a large syringe and drew out serum, tinged ominously with blood and fecal matter. No one said anything. No one had to. Surgery wasn't a viable option once the intestine had ruptured.

Gregg put his arm gently around Kelsey's shoulders and drew her aside, talking softly to her. I stroked poor old Nibbs's head and told him what a good horse he was and that I loved him.

Gregg led Nibbs away through the clinic while I took Kelsey back to the truck. I rolled his leg wraps and tucked them behind the seat. Kelsey cried silently. Gregg came back a few minutes later, looking suddenly much older.

The temperature that night dropped to a record -38°. The old farmhouse furnace churned and struggled to keep the house at 62°. The next morning, despite how we felt, the chores had to be done. I dreaded going into the barn, but knew I had to.

In the still-dark morning air, I forced open the barn door and flipped on the lights. The pony jutted his black nostrils out between the bars of his stall and murmured a low, warm welcome. Jane rustled her bedding as she turned to face the aisle. She blinked in the sudden brightness. Shavings clung to her flank and tail, betraying which side she'd slept on.

Jazz leaned his head and heavy chestnut neck over the top of his stall. He stamped impatiently on his rubber mat, banging his door. As I pushed past him with his bucket of grain, he blew sweet hay breath on me and nudged me -- horse language for "It's breakfast time, damn it. Where have you been?"

After feeding and watering, I sat for a while on a hay bale, trying not to think about Nibbs's empty stall. The windowpanes were frosted in crazy patterns. I closed my eyes and focused instead on the warmth emanating from the horses' bulk. They munched quietly and shifted their weight, bumping their grain buckets rhythmically. Those small, normal sounds served as reassuring reminders of their unaltered need to adhere to routine. Gradually my thoughts shifted from yesterday's tragedy to the bittersweet blend of joy and pain that comes with loving animals.

A last I stood and brushed the chaff from my backside. I spent a few minutes stroking each horse and whispering thanks for this consolation. Finally I turned to the wheelbarrow to resume my chores.

In the harshness of a Vermont winter, it's so easy to turn inward, to close ourselves down a bit, and yet the gentle, comforting presence of animals helps us resist. In winter, I am grateful for small things.