Lezlie Kling
Eleven months is a long time to wait for this blessed event. Most mares are closely monitored starting about three or four weeks before their first due date. Not so on my farm. We have miniature horses. Minis like to surprise everyone by delivering three weeks or so early. My mares are monitored as a matter of course, right along with everyone else on the farm. When I have a mare due at the end of August, however, I'm going to start looking at her differently starting in the beginning of July.
My mares come to me usually two weeks before they deliver and stand next to me or in front of my pitchfork, looking forlorn, as if to say, "OK. It's time to watch me."
When Duchess came to me in the first week of July, my reaction was, "On my. Oh no. It's too early. I'm not ready." This means long-stemmed wheat straw, a stethoscope, thermometer, and a clock. This means panic. And my glasses. Don't forget the glasses. Oh, and a pad of paper and pen. A pocket T-shirt is a necessity when you have to play vet. This way you leave the stethoscope hooked around your neck with the end tucked in your pocket. Is the phone within reach. Do I know the vet's number by heart? Yes. Better write it down somewhere close to the phone.
At nightfall I bed down the stall. Nice, clean, long-stemmed wheat straw. I'm told this is the safest bedding for foaling. Make sure she has fresh water in the rubber tub. No handle. No danger of the new baby getting tangled up in a bucket handle. Hay, smell it to make sure it's mildew free. Already grained her. A small rubber tub of mineral salt. OK. The stall's ready: food, water, salt, bedding.
Bring in the mare. My mares are used to being turned out with the herd. They get free roam of the barn. All stall doors locked open. For some reason (nature's own) she doesn't fight it. Her safe haven for the next month or so. Come to think of it, when I was as big as Duchess (she can't fit in the booth at MacDonalds), I didn't fight anything either.
Her pulse is elevated, and her temperature is pretty normal for her. She's eating, drinking, urinating, pooping. OK. Everything's fine.
Bring in the chair. Have a seat. Read again about the stages of labor. Observe my mare. Compare what it says in the book to what I'm seeing. I'm never sure. Make notes.Sunday July 6, p.m.
Jell-O rump (atonic musculature) I think so tail flicking like a squirrel kind of well-sprung ribs a definite yes unsteady gait eh? shifting positions aren't horses always shifting positions? prominent drop of abdomen oh yes milk veins enlarged I can't tell full, tense, warm udder feels that way to me restlessness who knows? frequent defecation what would frequent be? When doc said, "Believe me, you'll know when it's time," was he right? Will I know? I had an observation platform built into my foaling stall. It's three feet high and about as big as a double bed. Well, the book says not to interfere, just observe. My daughter and various friends of hers have slept up there on cots, all hoping to be here on the night. It works out great when people with small children come to see the tiny baby. And believe me, everyone with a small child wants to come see the baby.
So this is now the nurse's station, equipped with rolled cotton, latex gloves, Betadine, tincture of iodine, etc. With me sitting up there the mare isn't interfered with. Ha! If you build it, they will ... want me right down in the straw with them. So I sit in my folding chair and read or write. Not for long. Not with Duchess. Mama Duchy comes and lays her head right in the middle of the book in my lap.
"Please scratch my neck?" Forget the book now. This is bonding time for us. This is when I really get to know each mare individually. My "beached whales." By 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. I decide to go to bed. No baby tonight. This goes on every night.
In the morning it's a vital-sign check. Making a quick observation, I feel her udder for size and temperature (if I can get my hand under there before she bites me). Then out she goes. At this point I turn her out alone in the playpen, a small paddock within the herd's pasture, so that nobody is lonely.
Wednesday July 9
"Doc, while you're here, could you just take a look at Duchess? I think she's going to go soon." No, the vet says she could go another two weeks. I am not a vet.
Two nights later Duchess is sleeping safely in her stall while I pick the fields. It's so peaceful out here at night. When I'm done my work, I sit and listen to the horses grazing and interacting. It's so calming. Like watching a fish tank. Before I go in for the night, I'll just take Duchy's temperature real quick. It's down a degree, but her pulse is about what it's been for two weeks. As I observe her one last time (no such thing), she seems a little nervous. Seems to be more active than usual. She sure is doing a lot of pooping. When I came in to take her temperature, there were five dumps in the stall. Let me just read a couple of things and then go to bed.
By now it's 3:45 a.m. I think she's looking a little "slap-sided" (baby is in position), but I'm not sure. Her vulva is a lot more relaxed. Now she is standing in the corner with her head slightly elevated, and from across the stall I can see her gum. I shook my head thinking, "This mare's bite is so bad I can see her gum from here." I continue reading. She continued doing this strange thing with her upper lip and pooping every five minutes. Now I know what they meant by "frequent defecation."
When a horse has contractions, it all happens internally. There are very few outward signs. One of them, I learn as I read on, is that some mares react with their upper lips. Well, well, well. This is what she's doing. I think.
"Come here, mama. I'll scratch your neck." Her neck is really warm tonight (this morning). And she seems to be blowing quietly. Doc was right. I do know. She's in the stage they call imminent parturition. She's having this baby. Right here! Right now! And she's not going to wait for the vet.
Oh my. Oh my. She's going down. Now she's up. Down again. Up again. I'll wrap her tail while she's up. Where's the ace bandage to wrap her tail? I forgot the ace bandage.
Quick, get a call in to the vet's answering service. Run to the tackroom. Grab the bandage. Run back. Get to the wall of the stall. She's back down and her water breaks. Guess we won't have to wrap her tail.
OK! A couple of deep breaths. Not Duchess, me. Focus on being calm and just watching nature take it's course. Oh, the hooves are out. They look just like the pictures in the books of a foal in "the proper position." Like it's diving. Another push and I see the whole front end of the foal. The hooves didn't break the amniotic sac. Calming myself, I carefully tear the sac open, then slide it over the baby's head. She's opened her eyes. To me there's nothing like this feeling.
My vet's new (fresh out of vet school) assistant calls. I explain what's going on and what I've done so far. She thinks everything seems normal. Now it's 4:10 in the morning, mind you, and I can hear this woman smiling as she answers my questions through the rest of the birth. She's great.
Hang up the phone and hit the straw with Duchess and her new little baby girl. Do some imprinting with the filly while she's still wet, and support her as she struggles to her feet, which, by the way, have an outer covering that splits and cracks and falls off when she stands. It's a good thing I recalled having read something about this in one of my books because I'm telling you I would have thought she was losing her hooves.
Within one hour the skinny little filly is on her feet and nursing. A nice warm bran mash for Duchy and leave the barn so that mama and baby can bond.
What a feeling of euphoria to witness this miracle. Even now while thinking of it, I can't stop smiling. I left the barn at 5:15 that morning. The sun was coming up. The sky was clear. The birds were starting to sing a peaceful welcoming. I leaned on the barn door and said out loud, "God's in his heaven and all's right with the world."About Lezlie Kling
Copyright© Lezlie Kling.
Published here by permission of the author.
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