“I’ll drive you,” the vet says again, and I don’t know if that means he’ll get me home in time, or he doesn’t think it matters. It matters to me . . . and to Moonlight.
6
Foal
At the bottom of a hill a few miles the other side of Clover Bottom, we make a right turn at the small yellow train depot, cross the tracks, and follow a streambed into a hollow. The road ends at a large barn with peeling red paint. Inside I can hear a mare whinny and snort, whinny and snort. The vet winces. It’s the same way I feel when I arrive at a pregnant woman’s home and hear her scream.
Mr. Hester jumps out of the car and heads for the open barn door. “Bring my bag and the birth box, will you?” he yells back. “In the trunk.” As the able assistant, I find the black leather satchel he stowed in the backseat and the wooden box with a hinged lid in the trunk, then trip along after him. In the dim barn, a dappled gray mare lies in the straw, her eyes wide with terror, and I instantly want to comfort her, tell her it will be all right.
Hester shakes hands with a farmer whose thick red hair sticks up as though he’s been on an all-night bender, then kneels at the horse’s side and says something to the animal that I can’t hear. The farmer hands me a bucket of warm soapy water and a clean white feed sack. “You the new helper?” he asks. “Ain’t seen a woman veterinarian before.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the vessel, remembering that I’m dressed for the part in my heavy plaid jacket and pants. If I’m playing the vet assistant I better act like one, so I find a place out of the way, set the bucket down, and open the birth box to see what’s in it. Behind me the horse screams again and stands up. Something’s hanging out of her birth canal, a leg maybe, covered with membrane.
“How long has she been this way?” Hester asks.
“Four hours. She won’t settle. It’s her first. I tried to help her, but she kicked me away.” He holds out his arm, pushes up his flannel shirtsleeve, and shows us a large purple bruise.
Hester hangs up his coat and takes off his upper clothing down to his wool undervest, then motions for me to bring over the bucket. “You better scrub too. There’s supposed to be two feet.” That’s all he says, as if I know what this means.
When’s he’s done washing thoroughly, he slathers his arms and hands with soap again and waits. I set the bucket down, take off my jacket, roll up the sleeves of my work shirt, start washing like he did, and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
The mare is lying down again, groaning and straining, but nothing’s coming out. “We’re going to have to go in for the other leg,” the vet explains. “Let me get her to stand. Then I want you to pull down on the limb that’s dangling while I reach in.” I nod and do what he tells me. For ten minutes he fools around while the mare strains, and I see that with each contraction his brow beads with sweat as if he’s in pain. Sometimes a muscle in his face twitches, but other than that there’s no way to tell. Finally he withdraws. “I can’t get it. Will you try? Your arm and hand are smaller.” He spreads his fingers, which would play an octave and a half on the piano: big, powerful mitts, good for many things but not for mucking around in an animal’s vagina, not even a horse’s.
“What should I do?” I whisper. We both face away from the farmer, who stands respectfully back by the barn doors. “Go in like I did and see if you can find the other hoof. I can just touch it. If you can get in a little farther, you should be able to hook your fingers around and bring it down.”
I soap up again, this time past my elbow, and slowly wiggle my way inside, doing as he says. Between contractions I wait and it does hurt a little, but not badly. There’s no point trying to go farther while the mare bears down. I’m surprised when I find the second foot where he says and smile; then, following his instructions, I carefully manipulate it toward the opening.
At last both legs hang out. Hester takes them in his big hands and pulls, while the mare pushes. There’s no whinnying now. She’s all business, feeling her efforts accomplishing something. I’ve seen this before with my own patients. A mother who appears exhausted from an obstructed labor will revive and find strength when a malpresentation is resolved.
I stand next to the vet, my arms at my sides, amazed that with steady traction the legs emerge and then the head with the membrane still covering it. Suddenly, without warning, the whole mass swivels and plops out on me, my glasses fall off, and I collapse into the straw. The mare lies down too, her hard labor over, and looks behind her at the baby horse in my lap. She sniffs her offspring, who lifts his head with the amniotic sac still covering it.
Without asking I begin to peel the membrane off the little face, then look up at Mr. Hester for approval. He nods okay and hands me a towel to work with. The colt opens his eyes and I blow on him, the same way I blow on a baby if it doesn’t breathe right away. The breath of life, I call it, and the little horse gasps from the cold air the same as a newborn human baby does.
Hester is already finished washing up and is inspecting the farmer’s arm. “It’s a nasty one,” he says of the bruise. I feel around in the hay for my specs, squirm out from under the seventy-pound chunk of new life, and give the little one and his mama some time to get to know each other. How like a human mother she is! Nuzzling her newborn, eyes shining with love, sniffing it, licking it.
“Nice colt,” I say to the men as I wash my hands. There’s nothing to be done about my wet trousers.
“It’s a filly,” the vet corrects. I snap my mouth shut, feeling foolish, and go out to the car.
Milk Stone
Twenty minutes later, motoring toward home over the stone bridge that crosses the wide and rocky Hope River, I’m still embarrassed about my mistake in calling the filly a colt but also elated from the experience of witnessing new life. It doesn’t matter if it’s a horse or a human, I decide, it’s still amazing. If I believed, I’d call it God’s miracle.
“Thank you for taking me with you,” I say humbly. “I’ve never seen anything born before, except a human. Are they always that way? Or was that an especially hard delivery?”
“No, it wasn’t especially hard. I’ve never seen a human born. Seen all kinds of animals . . . but . . .” He changes the subject. “Every now and then I need an assistant for the hard deliveries. I’m the only vet in the county now, and my practice is new. Some of the farmers are helpful, and some I wish would just go back in the house. Mr. Hicks was okay, not as nervous as some.