Drama, Normal, and an Unnamed Filly

Drama marches in on the hoof of a chestnut steed. Of course it invariably has to happen right as the Friday evening suppertime bell is about to ring. And as usual, it all starts out with the announcement that another escape from the pasture has occurred. There, just outside the front picture window is a beautiful quarter horse grazing on the short grass with elegant leisure.

Fortunately it’s only Filly (for want of a better name), who is mellow and calm and likes people. Slip a halter on, and Voila! she’s caught. End of drama.

That is, under normal circumstances. But since life seldom dishes out normality it would naturally be an abnormal circumstance this evening. Dad was the first to notice the indication that this would not be a normal experience.

"Hey, what’s on her hoof?" He pointed out, as Hannah was about to lead her to green pastures.

The discovery was not a good one. However had it not been made the outcome would’ve been tragic for Miss Filly. So, I guess in that case, it was a good discovery.

There, just above the hoof on her back right leg was blood. And lots of it, with no sign of let up. On closer examination, reality was that our Filly was badly cut. A wound most gruesome that could probably have a dramatic effect on the faint-at-heart, which I happen to almost be.

It didn’t take long to know that this was more than a simple wound cured with the cure-all red-cote. It was time to dig out the phone book and try to remember who our vet was. Dad placed the emergency call, and after finally contacting Mr. Schmidt, he said he was on his way.

For what seemed like hours, but was probably less than one, Hannah and I stood in the cold autumn rain feeling pathetically sorry for Filly’s ghastly hoof and trying not to look at it as we crooned and comforted the poor mare. We discussed in soft tones what would be a good proper name for the first horse that has been on our property for two years and as of yet unnamed. That discussion ended where it always does.

The rain was continuing to drench through my supposed-to-be waterproof slicker, the puddle of blood around that poor hoof was growing and so was Filly’s discomfort. I was reminded why I was never interested in the EMT field. It was a great relief to see the Tahoe pull into the driveway and finally closed the short nursing career-for-the-evening chapter of my life.

A shot later, Filly stood there in a glazed stupor while Mr. Schmidt readied his tools. He threaded his horrifically huge needle and started stitching away explaining cheerfully that she cut through the cartilage and a vein, and why his two kids aren’t going to college for veterinary practice.

After 10 or so stitches, a tetanus shot and some antibiotics the drama came to an end while the rain continued it’s incessant beating on the rickety tin shack that was serving as a clinic. We head back to the neglected supper in our cozy house, leaving the poor Filly on the mend, but so drugged she has no idea she's alive. Life returns to normal. Normal? Well, Filly is still unnamed, and that’s normal.