I’ve spared you my charming company this week.
I’ve returned from 36 hours of camping. It’s not fun: there are enforced marches in all-weather extremes, (mine started at 80 degrees). 7 hours later, the sky is lake-black, it’s 40 degrees colder, but we are still marching in tank tops, wrapped against the chill in whatever large protective thing we can find. Hopefully the LPT is not too dirty, smelly, and overrun with spiders. Sleep deprivation is mandatory. Being able to tolerate the nighttime wildlife is preferable.
I’m lucky. I only had rats, skunks, one irritable looking possum.
No one plans this as a destination, people dread going, yet a whooping 90% of horse people find themselves suffering through this non-vacation overnight spot.
It’s like jury duty. Inevitably, your number comes up.
It was such a little thing. I was fixing Tiny’s “happy meal” (supplements in grain). He did not run his teeth across the metal pipe atop his stall wall. There was no horrible scraping ringing noise. I did not yell my standard response: “Knock it off! We’re not paying for an Orthodontist!”.
That’s our routine 364 days of the year. Huh. Must have hit day 365. Nice. I feed Tiny. He buries his head in his happy meal.
There’s the peaceful sound of 30 horses munching hay. I pack up and put things away. 15 minutes later, I feel a tug.
What is it Lassie? It’s Timmy? Where is he?
Fine. He didn’t drag his teeth across the metal. I’ll check one last time.
Tiny is laying down next to a perfectly pressed rectangle of hay. Most of his happy meal is untouched.
He’s bright-eyed, fully hydrated, not sweating, not rolling, not staring or biting at his sides and is passing manure normally. He just happens to be laying down at dinner time. Which is how I know I have a serious colic on my hands. Tiny is a food vacuüm. He Hoovers the aisles, pockets, other horses, visitors, and anyone who is dumb enough to leave a car window down with food on the seat.
The short story: Daisy came to help, we got through it, and discovered a full Broadway style production of 42nd Street danced and sung in the arena will distract a horse in great pain and keep him from rolling.
Thanks to Dr. Bob, Daisy, me, and oddly, Christmas, Tiny is okay.
Whew. He scared me.
In the mean time, I’ve asked Daisy to do a guest blog, so we should be having entertainment some time this weekend, and hopefully a winner announced by Monday for our caption contest!