Monday morning, as I lay half asleep sorting out which day of the week it is, I hear Hubby say, “What the h-ll are you doing out of bed?” By process of elimination, I figure that he is talking to Senior Dog, who usually doesn’t stir without firm motivation. A reasonable question. Also the theme of the morning.
A short while later, I hear, “Would you come give me a hand?” addresses to me in a tone that suggests urgency but not emergency, along the lines of an escaped kitten.
I am close.
We can see part of the field from the front door. Up on the hill is a big, black butt. Yes, black. As in Mathilda. Out grazing. All four legs are pointed down, so we assume she is some degree of okay. Wonder what the barn looks like?
Hubby sensibly decides that the situation – whatever it be – is stable and we can respond with traffic. I opt for lights & sirens. I move right to pass, only to trip over a root. For a few strides I think I can pull off a save, only to go skidding into the gravel scraping knee, elbow, and both palms in a way I have not done since I was in single digits.
Fortunately, the barn is near. By the time I reach it, I am starting to vagal out. For those who have not experienced this amusing little syndrome, the vasovagal response is when a body “overreacts to triggers, such as the sight of blood or extreme emotional distress. [Mayo]” Or skinning one’s knee, in my case. I become light-headed, nauseated, and possessed with an overwhelming desire for the nearest horizontal surface.
Poor Hubby is torn between his escaped horse and his wife curled up on the barn floor twitching and whining. I mumble a feeble, “I’m fine”. He goes. I stagger out to see him leading Mathilda. She’s walking well. Time to lie down again. On my back? Nope, bad idea. The world goes all distant and fuzzy. Hands and knees work better. I scuttle over to the side of the pen to watch Hubby bring in the escapee and check her over. No marks other than some dust on her neck.
As best we can reconstruct, she went to scratch her neck on the barrier, pushed up, and got lucky at a weak spot. Hubby asks if I want to take a picture of the broken boards for content. I walk – slowly – back to the house to get my camera.
It was quite a morning.
Care to share your Houdini story?
Virtual Brush Box 