You WILL be answered.
The universe is a helpful beast. I think of it as a giant thing, with a filing cabinet full of twinkling stars. Ask ‘what next?’ and the universe will fall all over itself to let you know. Things it was saving to distribute over time are shoved to the front of the line.
Jane: Tiny’s colic was scary. Shoot, it was a bad weekend. Thank God (literally) he’s okay. Should be smooth sailing from here. What else could happen?
Universe: (Scratching its head and only registering the question) She wants to know? Okay, no problem. Let me check the records…next six months we had planned…Oh. I see we had the colic already. That was on schedule…what’s next? Um-hm, okay…I see we have a lot planned this year. Well, we’ll just move things along so she’ll know…
(First things first: ignore my thighs. Oh yeah, I also don’t sit on him like that. I’d just sat up from hugging him. But the ignoring thighs are way more important than how I’m sitting.)
3 days after the colic, it’s clear he’s sprained his neck. Probably from going up and down so much with the colic. He’d sprained it severely last year, this is comparatively minimal, but problematic. He needs to walk. His neck needs to not move much. Bute (Horse asprin, to the non-horsey) would help, but he just recovered from a weird colic. Bute upsets tummies. Okay, no bute. Colic needs trump sprain needs.
Yesterday, after icing his neck sprain, I started hand walking him. I got as far as the end of the lead rope. Tiny wouldn’t budge. I don’t want to yank on the lead: sprained neck. Huh. He’d happily walked out of his stall to get iced and checked out.
I wheedle. “C’mon Tiny, you gotta move. You don’t want to go through that again, right?”
Tiny takes two steps forward and I continue walking to the end of the lead rope. I turn back. I’d better cajole, since wheedling didn’t pan out.
Tiny looks back at his side. Oh crap, please please please not another colic! I listen to his gut. Sounds like a freight train moving around in there. I cajole. Nothing. I get stern and demanding. “Move it, buster!”
Tiny sighs, and walks forward, I’m still looking at him. He lifts up his right hind leg in an exaggerated position, and turns to stare at the leg. Oh. He was looking at his leg, not his tummy.
“Really?” I say.
Tiny puts his hoof down. I ask him to walk forward again, this time fully facing him. He takes two halting steps, and when he lifts the right hind leg, it nearly disappears into his stomach, and he won’t put it down.
Tiny has learned if he shows us which foot, we will make it feel better. He won’t put the foot down until I make a show of examining the leg and hoof, and convince him I understand. I drop the lead, go through the exam motions: crap, his hoof is hot. I pick up a rock and tap it in random areas, starting where I’m sure he’s okay. When it hits where I think the problem is, he groans. The hoof sounds less resonant there as well. Dang. There is an abscess brewing in his hoof.
Poor horse. Colic, sprained neck, now a painful abscess that isn’t opened. And no bute.
That’s why TLH has been on musical hold this week. I’ve missed you guys. I’m hoping to get the abscess open and draining today. Wish both of us luck.
We have a winner in the caption contest, to be posted tomorrow!
(Because I am not asking the Universe a dang thing, no matter what.)