And...Exhale Again

Scout passed her soundness exam yesterday. E moved her out while I stood with Dr. B. Scout was high as a kite. We had brought Gambler to the outdoor arena to keep her company, but Scout called over and over again to the other horses. They were all in their stalls, waiting for vaccines.

Oh, her scream can be deafening. She was jiggy and pissed off. E wrangled her on the longe line as if she were hauling in a swordfish. At one point, Dr. B went to Scout and spent a few moments flexing her at the neck to bring her back down to earth. I watched all of this silently, thinking, "There's the horse I know. Mm-hmm." Eventually, Scout settled enough to circle on the longe. Then she was comical, torn between moving forward, calling to her herd, and snaking her nose down to grab a bite of the new grass. Trying to handle all of those competing needs, she displayed astonishing flexibility.

Dr. B asked for canter. Oh, Scout took off. She exploded into a canter, dropping low to push off. She's a fast horse, and I often imagine there's a spoiler mounted over her rump to create better aerodynamics, like some gear head souped her up. Whoosh.

It took half an hour to get through the exam. There's a shortness of stride lingering in the left hind, but nothing else. Dr. B tracked the shortness of stride to Scout's hip. That problem first appeared in March 2009, and Scout subsequently received bilateral hock injections. It was a chicken and egg kind of thing: did the hip cause the hock or the hock cause the hip. We could see yesterday that the splint bone fracture and surgery had no impact on that. Doc B felt Scout was moving better now than she had since the subtle hip hitch first appeared.

I really had no expectations, and maybe not even any hopes either way. "She looks really good," said Dr. B, smiling. "Put her back to work." I was flooded with relief, I think. Relief for Scout. I felt the particular happiness of knowing that this animal that I love is all right. For the next few days, that's all I want to feel about her.

A Thousand Words, Part II

What the hell happened!? I don't feel good at all... I think my tongue is dead.
















Her right side was wet from levage, the constant flushing and rinsing of the surgical incision, wound and debris. Later, the surgeon handed me a large plastic vial containing the remains of her splint bone.















She is a vacuum cleaner. No bit of hay escapes her trawling muzzle. She didn't even look at it.




















She almost looks normal here, but her head had simply sunk to the floor. The remnants of the general anesthetic had to wear off, but she barely moved. Two sensations ebbed and flowed in her: as the cloud of anesthesia lifted, the heat of pain took its place. I groomed her for two hours then, until her right side was dry. The simple act of grooming was a thing that brought us close. It helped to know I could do something good for her















She did not know how to stand on the leg, but she was too tired to hold it off the ground for more than a few seconds. Occasionally she twisted her neck around to look back there.
















Little by little, she began to come back. I just wanted her to sleep, to be away from it all. She couldn't understand it anyway, so why have to feel it?




















How can she be so pretty?
















When she was finally clear eyed, I went home to H.G. and the cats. I had to. Every time I stepped away to take a picture, she moved to follow me. She stayed within a foot of me all afternoon, into the evening. I needed her to forget me, forget everything, start eating and go to sleep.

A Thousand Words, Part I

Remember? I don't want to see those needles! I can't.

Sedation changes everything. She began to slip past noticing.

They taped the edges of her hooves to protect the foam padding in the sedation and recovery room. A French manicure is not quite the right look for Scout, I don't think.

They wouldn't let me watch her going under general anesthesia. But later, they brought me into the operating room...

...to the moment when finally everything turns real.

I went outside for a cigarette. I was jittery. Not at the blood or the wound, but at the complete vulnerability of my mare. That only got worse for me. I wanted to lie down with her.

The Vulnerability of Her

As they say, that Monday night, just last week, seems an eternity ago.

My vet came to the barn the next day. I walked Scout in from her paddock. Dr. B palpated the leg. We moved to the indoor arena. Scout trotted willingly next to me, once out, then back. No more was necessary. Four X-rays. Between each one, Scout called to the horses, all of them outside, quiet in their paddocks. She has a deafening scream, the kind that moves her whole body. She means it when she speaks.

But even then, I had a sick feeling. It wasn't a matter of what if an injury, only a matter of what kind of injury. You begin to prepare, even though you don't know for what. I felt I was beginning to ready myself, but maybe I was only bracing myself. Maybe I was only kidding myself.

It was 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday when Dr. B called and told me that Scout had multiple fractures of her splint bone. By then, I had convinced myself that it was going to be nothing more than a bad bone bruise.

I managed to listen and scratch some notes on the back of a phone bill, but I was shocked. There would be a surgical consult, but Scout was to be put in a standing wrap and confined to stall rest, 24-7, immediately. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," I said, but -- 24-7 confinement? No way. Scout grew up living outdoors, no matter wind, rain, heat, ice. I had to train her to understand that coming into a well-bedded box stall every night was a wonderful thing. That took some time, and she accepted it only when she realized that all the other horses came in at night too.

On Wednesday night, E, my trainer, taught me how to do a standing wrap. I took a picture of the first wrap I did by myself, last Friday night. I need a little more practice, but Scout is making it easy. She stands still, and occasionally arches her neck around to watch me fumbling at her feet.

Thanksgiving happened in a kind of suspended reality, and then came Friday night and the results of the surgical consult.

There are multiple fractures of the upper half of the splint bone and a clean break in the lower half. Most of the bone must be removed. An ultrasound could determine whether the suspensory ligament ( a principal component of that architecture of the leg that so amazes me) has been damaged, but surgery will also reveal that.

"When I look at the X-rays, I think your mare has an incredible tolerance for pain," said Dr. B, remarking on how difficult it had been to elicit any signs of discomfort in Scout.

"Pardon my language, Doc," I said. "Scout is one tough bitch." And she is. She's always been an easy keeper and a quick healer. It's not her physical recovery that I worry about, but her mental ability to withstand the constraints of the recovery process.

Tomorrow night, E and I will trailer her to the clinic. She'll have surgery on Wednesday morning. We'll bring her home Thursday afternoon. Every step of the process is new to Scout and new to me. I want to manage my anxiety and anger -- and yes, there is anger -- by throwing myself into learning as much as I can about everything that will happen, as it happens, over the next few days.