she would have been rolling around in pain for a long time. But she liked the petting. I stroked her face and ears, and she gave a few grunts and sighs. Mom said, “I think she colicked in the night. Rolling around with the pain might have given her an intestinal twist. Oh, dear. She has no gut sounds at all.” Horses always make gut sounds because their digestion is always working.
“She seemed fine when I gave them the hay last night.” I always did that around six.
“Oh, there’s no telling,” said Mom. “What a business.” Then she said, “Hey, darlin’, does your tummy hurt?”
I kept petting Pearl’s head and her neck, and she closed her eyes. In the meantime, the foal came over to me and began to nose my shoulder. I felt his breath on my cheek and twistedaround to pet him, too, but he moved away and went back to pushing on the mare and whinnying to her.
“I’m sure he’s terribly hungry,” said Mom.
“Are you going to call the vet?”
Daddy hated it if we had to call the vet, even though sometimes we did. He maintained that he knew almost as much as most vets, and when they came and said, “Well, Mark, I don’t really know what to tell you,” you still had to pay them anyway.
Mom was stroking Pearl on the belly, long, kind strokes that the mare seemed to like. At any rate, her eyes were still closed. She said, “Abby, sweetheart, I don’t know what the vet could do. Look how swollen her belly is. That means the gases have already built up and the poisons have started to break down her insides. There’s nothing he could do that would save her. Honey, I hate to have to tell you this, but she’s going to die, and what we have to do is just keep her company. Do you understand that?”
I said, “Yeah. Yes, I do.”
She nodded. After a moment, she said, “Okay.”
So, we knelt by the mare for a few minutes, Mom stroking her belly and me stroking her head, and she seemed to quiet down and relax. I played with her mane a bit, too. Horses like you to scratch them lightly at the base of their manes, because that’s a spot they can’t reach themselves. But we couldn’t do anything with Jack. He was restless. He kept pushing at her and pawing the ground. Once in a while, he would take a few strands of grass between his lips, but then he would toss his head and spit them out. All the time he was making noise—little whinnies and nickers and grunts. He went around her a few times.
At one point, he stood behind her tail, reaching across her back leg, trying to nurse from her. He knew where the spot was, but since she was lying down, he couldn’t make it work. I was just on the verge of saying to Mom, “Maybe I should—” but I didn’t know what I should do, when the mare lifted her head and her shoulders. Mom and I backed away—there was no telling what she would do—and she heaved herself up, shoulders first. She rolled up on her breast and got her front legs under her and then made herself stand up. She gave a huge grunt, almost a groan. When she was up, she spread her legs to each side and kind of staggered in place. Mom was behind me, and she put her hands on my shoulders as if I were going to go and help the mare and she was going to stop me.
The mare stood there with her head down and her ears flopped, and the foal went to his accustomed spot and started to nurse. But it only lasted a minute. She couldn’t do it. She began to collapse, and the foal jumped out of the way. When she hit the ground, her eyes were already closed, and I think she died a minute or two later. By that time I was crying so hard I couldn’t see, and Mom was crying, too. We got down next to her and petted her and petted her. The foal kept whinnying.
After a little bit, Mom leaned over and listened to her chest, and then she sat up. “Honey, I’m going to get the foal’s halter.”
When she was gone, I sat back on my heels and looked at the mare. What had happened to her was invisible. Everythingabout
“She seemed fine when I gave them the hay last night.” I always did that around six.
“Oh, there’s no telling,” said Mom. “What a business.” Then she said, “Hey, darlin’, does your tummy hurt?”
I kept petting Pearl’s head and her neck, and she closed her eyes. In the meantime, the foal came over to me and began to nose my shoulder. I felt his breath on my cheek and twistedaround to pet him, too, but he moved away and went back to pushing on the mare and whinnying to her.
“I’m sure he’s terribly hungry,” said Mom.
“Are you going to call the vet?”
Daddy hated it if we had to call the vet, even though sometimes we did. He maintained that he knew almost as much as most vets, and when they came and said, “Well, Mark, I don’t really know what to tell you,” you still had to pay them anyway.
Mom was stroking Pearl on the belly, long, kind strokes that the mare seemed to like. At any rate, her eyes were still closed. She said, “Abby, sweetheart, I don’t know what the vet could do. Look how swollen her belly is. That means the gases have already built up and the poisons have started to break down her insides. There’s nothing he could do that would save her. Honey, I hate to have to tell you this, but she’s going to die, and what we have to do is just keep her company. Do you understand that?”
I said, “Yeah. Yes, I do.”
She nodded. After a moment, she said, “Okay.”
So, we knelt by the mare for a few minutes, Mom stroking her belly and me stroking her head, and she seemed to quiet down and relax. I played with her mane a bit, too. Horses like you to scratch them lightly at the base of their manes, because that’s a spot they can’t reach themselves. But we couldn’t do anything with Jack. He was restless. He kept pushing at her and pawing the ground. Once in a while, he would take a few strands of grass between his lips, but then he would toss his head and spit them out. All the time he was making noise—little whinnies and nickers and grunts. He went around her a few times.
At one point, he stood behind her tail, reaching across her back leg, trying to nurse from her. He knew where the spot was, but since she was lying down, he couldn’t make it work. I was just on the verge of saying to Mom, “Maybe I should—” but I didn’t know what I should do, when the mare lifted her head and her shoulders. Mom and I backed away—there was no telling what she would do—and she heaved herself up, shoulders first. She rolled up on her breast and got her front legs under her and then made herself stand up. She gave a huge grunt, almost a groan. When she was up, she spread her legs to each side and kind of staggered in place. Mom was behind me, and she put her hands on my shoulders as if I were going to go and help the mare and she was going to stop me.
The mare stood there with her head down and her ears flopped, and the foal went to his accustomed spot and started to nurse. But it only lasted a minute. She couldn’t do it. She began to collapse, and the foal jumped out of the way. When she hit the ground, her eyes were already closed, and I think she died a minute or two later. By that time I was crying so hard I couldn’t see, and Mom was crying, too. We got down next to her and petted her and petted her. The foal kept whinnying.
After a little bit, Mom leaned over and listened to her chest, and then she sat up. “Honey, I’m going to get the foal’s halter.”
When she was gone, I sat back on my heels and looked at the mare. What had happened to her was invisible. Everythingabout
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