Knackered -- Emly, Ireland

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I enjoy the way black blends with purple and grey and green to form the rooftop shingles above George’s mudroom. I love how the deep mahoganies mix with the dark greens, light greens, and whites in the hedge between the front lawn and the road. So many colors in such a small space. So complimentary and beautiful.

Sean, the foal out of This One, started acting a little peculiar the day before yesterday. George noticed signs of pain when he went to feed in the morning. He asked me to check on the horses around ten o’clock, so I donned the blue wellingtons that are only three sizes too big, and set off through the boggy yellow fields.

Colic comes and goes, George says. One moment, the horse will be fine. The next moment, he could be rolling around on the ground in pain. The next moment, he could be dead.

Every moment is vitally important.

I sat in the Hill Field and carefully scrutinized Sean. Something seemed off. Quite off. Instead of rhythmically grazing like the other horses, he would paw the grass with his front hoof, wobble his lips above the blades, and then move on, leaving the grass uneaten and hardly worse for wear. He would strain his neck, pull back his lips, and urinate a few drops. He did this about once a minute for at least a quarter of an hour.

Odd, I thought. I’ve never seen a horse do that before. A dog, yes... but not a horse.

So I trudged through the sludge to tell George. Upon hearing my account of abnormal pissing and pawing, the old man leapt into action.

“Aimee, you vill take za bucket vis oats and bring za mares into za bottom paddock. I vill drife down in za Nissan since my quad is still at za shop and I cannot valk zhat far. Close za gate to za bottom paddock and zhen ve vill bring down za mares and foals to za barn. I vill take Bobomai, and you vill take Zhis One. Hurry! Run!”

After closing the stall doors on Bobomai and This One, George went into the house to call the vet and told me to, “Clean up zhis loose straw and zhen vatch him. Vatchink him is za most important sink. You can take a chair, if you vish.”

I grabbed the stool in the kitchen (the one keeping Leon from eating all the potatoes), and sat myself down in the corner of the stable. The foal strained and stamped, but nursed normally and passed some solid waste. When a horse colics, one of the most important things to look for is solid waste – if they’re able to make a steaming pile of apples, you know that matter can pass through their intestines and it’s unlikely the gut will burst.

But George was still worried, so I watched Sean until the vet arrived -- a young Italian by the name of Francesco --whom George found tremendously incompetent. Francesco scanned the foal’s stomach and announced that his intestines were slightly distended. He recommended painkillers and medicine to loosen up the gut.

George was adamantly opposed to the painkillers.

“How vill ve know whezer or not za foal is improvink if we cannot see za pain? No painkillers. NO.”

In the end, George drove 6 hours round trip to drop the mare and foal off at a clinic.

“It is alvays better to be on za safe side. At za clinic, zhey can take za foal into surgery if he gets vorse.”

So I sat around the kitchen table and ate chicken lentil tagine with Johnny. I don’t believe that the Irish are fond of overly spicy foods. I love dishes that overwhelm my taste buds with cumin and turmeric and tomatoes and dates. I demolished my bowl, and poor Johnny picked at his out of politeness. I think it was a bit too unusual for his liking. You should have just offered him tea like a normal person, Bourget. Why’d you have to go and offer the chap tagine?

 But he gave me sweets and clapped me on the shoulder and treated me like an old friend (even though he didn’t remember me at all). So it couldn’t have been that bad.

George was exhausted the next day. Completely and utterly “knackered,” yet he still waited anxiously by the phone until the vet at the clinic called and said that the foal would be fine. He only had a gas colic and his ulcers were acting up again.

“You haf made my mornink. Now I go to bed,” George happily hung up the phone and retired to his room.

The day was another wet one. I’m amazed that the land can tolerate so many rainy days in a row without becoming a swamp. One afternoon of rain like this in Grand Junction, and the entire town would be flooded.

Rodney (George’s favorite vet) came to scan two of the mares at about ten o’clock at night. It was strange to see him pull on the plastic glove that went all the way to his shoulder and insert his whole arm up the mare’s vaginal canal. Both mares were pregnant and doing well. George was pleased.

“Now eferysink is okay.”

“Yes, George. Everysink is okay.”

 Preconceptions: 

None. 

Challenges: 

*sigh* None.