The weekend’s show report will be delayed one day. I have a rainbow bridge announcement. Last Friday, Mathilda had one mechanical failure too many.
At breakfast, she had once again lain down and gotten stuck. When we got her up, it was obvious she had hurt her shoulder. With three wonky legs, she was unable to maintain her balance and collapsed. Even if we could have bodily lifted her to her feet, she would have need bute &/or banamine for muscle aches and to prevent colic. This would have lead to appetite suppression and the loss of weight she could not spare. The minions had run out of miracles. Vet was called.
Unfortunately, the clinic had several crises that morning, necessitating a wait of several hours. At this point she was out in the pasture. We stayed with her, sitting by her head, doing what we could to keep her cool and shaded. When she got uncomfortable, we rolled her over, putting blankets underneath for cushioning. Tears were shed.
We wanted the vet to hurry up and yet dreaded his arrival. When he saw that she had been down since we first called, he ramped up to give us The Speech. We cut him off. We already knew the right thing to do. We hated it, but it was correct.
The vet came and went. The man with the backhoe came and went. Mathilda was buried with her feed bucket, her booties, half a dozen carrots, and a double handful of horse cookies.
Yes, I went to the show that weekend. As soon as our duties were over, Chief Minion headed to work. I packed the car and headed to the show. Getting off the property seemed a good idea to both of us.
Rodney now lives out 24/7. Previously, he had been in his stall either to give Mathilda run of the pasture or to keep her company at night. On Friday, we brought him out to look and sniff. He spooked a little and then grazed by where she lay. He appears to be adjusting to life as a single horse. He certainly misses access to her leftover feed, special hay, & treats. He looks to us for company. But, so far, no running about or hysteria.
Side note: In the beginning stages of waiting for the vet, although unable to rise to her feet, the daft cow would roll partial up, grab a bite of grass and then flop back down. This is why I call … called … her names.
Mathilda, we miss you.