Three Fillies, continued ...
Meanwhile, we continued our intensive care of Crescent. That
night we expected her to begin to improve. She had lived almost
48 hours now. Time for her to rally. As the sun set, I noticed
Crescent's muzzle was clammy, not warm as it had been before.
Again Virginia bedded down in a sleeping bag next to her.
At 2 AM Virginia burst into the bedroom. "Mom, all of
a sudden Crescent started running around!" I pulled on a
coat and boots and rushed out. I hoped this meant Crescent was
feeling better. Please, Lord, I prayed silently. Lord. Lord.
I found Crescent sprawled on the ground next to the fence.
Lightfoot was leaning over it, trying to nuzzle her. Her muzzle
and legs were cold. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse weak.
Virginia woke Valerie to help. We wrapped Crescent in blankets
and began massaging her. I trickled a warm electrolyte and honey
mixture into her mouth, a tablespoon at a time. She was swallowing
weakly - but she was swallowing. Then, after I had fed half a
cup in, liquid began to trickle out the corner of her mouth.
Her breathing slowed, then stopped. Valerie placed her mouth
over a nostril, closing the other with her finger, and began
artificial respiration. I cradled Crescent's head in my lap,
reclining to listen to her chest. Her pulse slowed, faded. "Val,
her heart has stopped."
Crescent went into death throes, a slow convulsing. She died
with her head in my lap, daughters crying, Lightfoot peering
through the dark over the fence.
We pulled a blanket over Crescent and left her.
At dawn we rose to dig the grave. Lightfoot was still keeping
vigil over Crescent's body. When we pulled off the blanket, and
he saw she was truly dead, he slowly walked away, head down.
In her death throes she had composed her body into a galloping
position. I had a brief vision of her running free across a meadow
in Heaven. Tears ran down my cheeks. Gold began to streak the
east below the morning star.
As the girls and I dug her grave, I thought of Isaiah's vision
of heaven. "The wolf and lamb will feed together and the
lion will eat hay like an ox, and dust will be the poisonous
snake's food. 'They will neither harm nor destroy on all My holy
mountain,' says the Lord." (Isaiah 65:25)
Virginia strewed yellow chrysanthemums from her garden on
top of the body. I began to spade dirt on top of what once had
been Crescent. I felt the touch of Lightfoot's damp muzzle on
the back of my neck. He was saying good bye, too.
It was a blessing that we had Winslow, whom we had rescued
from slaughter, to focus our attention. One door had closed on
a life, but we had opened another for Winslow. Later that day
we decided to teach her to pick up her feet for us. The first
time Virginia tried to pick up Winslow's foot, the filly kicked
Virginia hard enough to knock her flat. Virginia dusted herself
off and tried again. Winslow decided not to make an issue of
it any more. Perhaps she realized she didn't want to flatten
her new friend.
|
By the following Saturday, seven days to the hour from buying
Winslow, we brought her to the Hugh Formhals pet auction. Valerie
and Virginia had groomed her, trimmed her whiskers, and braided
chrysanthemums into her mane and tail. Winslow walked around
politely on a lead rope, nuzzling people. A small girl sat on
her back for a picture. A lady bought her with plans to train
her to pull an antique one-horse buggy. She, like Formhals, was
a member of the New Mexico Carriage Club. |
Winslow at the pet auction. From left to right: Carolyn
M. Bertin, Hugh Formhals, Winslow, Virginia, and the lady who
bought Winslow.
|
Winslow showed me that it sometimes is easier to train a wild
horse than to retrain a spoiled horse. In the months to come,
we would learn a thing or two about spoiled horses.
Next chapter: Goat Ladies
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Killer Buyer
