Hot Blooded Murder (31 page)

“So you think tonight’s the night for the old mare, eh, Theo?”

“If pacin in her stall and not eatin her oats is any sign–”

“Those are signs. Is she eating any hay?”

“Yep. Gobbling it up.”

Nervous eating. The mare was probably having contractions.

“Give me a minute to get home and collect myself, then I’ll come right over.”

“Uh. One more thing, Bryn. I know I’m imposin on you a lot, but d’you think you could help me go to the pound tomorrow and pick up the stallion?”

“No imposition whatsoever. I’ll be happy to help. And afterward, if we both aren’t too wiped from the mare’s foaling and all, I want to interview you about the future of Morgan Oaks Farm. I’m writing an article.”

“Oh. The future! I can tell you what I want to happen. Don’t know if it’s gonna happen. Oh say. I heard from some woman in Texas. She’s innerested in buyin the herd.”
So that possible deal was still on!

“You interested in selling?”

“If I get to do what I’d like to do, wouldn’t mind paring them down some. But keep a few here. She’s real keen on that new foal. The one Marcie loved, Lightning Strikes Twice? Says she’d show him big-time and that would suit me just fine. Someone else doing all the work to show a horse and I would hopefully be the owner of his sire.”

“I see. Well, lots to talk about, Theo. Look. It might be a long night, so we can go over some of this while we wait for that mare–what’s the mare’s name, anyway?”

“Boston.”

“Good New England name. Okay. See you in about an hour. And hey–I might nibble on some Chinese while we wait around for the mare. I do love an egg roll.”

“Okay! Thanks, Bryn.”

I hung up and wondered if Lu was well enough to go with me. I couldn’t leave her alone all night long.

I walked into the bedroom. Lulu raised her head, and then got to her feet. She stretched, elongating her body like a greyhound. She looked up at me, wagged her tail and walked toward the French doors with barely a limp. I took this in.

“C’mon, Lu, we’re going to help a baby get born.”

Chapter Thirty Three

In the dark barn, Theo and I sat in lawn chairs outside the foaling stall. Both Lulu and Domino slept on the aisle floor beside us. Theo’s eye was swollen and blackening. There were stitches across his temple, but his mood was chipper.

A lamp was rigged via extension cord and rested between us on a bale of hay. A brown bag with Chinese goodies sat next to it. I’d also brought along an old Dick Francis mystery to read, and from Marcie’s tack room I’d filled a wooden tack box with various foaling aids. On the way, I’d stopped and bought us two super-sized Snickers bars and I’d made a giant insulated mug of black chicory coffee for myself. I smiled.
Old times.
Typical mare watch procedures. Despite the frenzy of the ambulance, the police, as I made preparations for the birth, peace settled over me. This was something I’d done literally over two hundred times. Each time the optimism and excitement that precedes new life came over me, washing away death and despair.

The mare was eating the warm bran mash I’d prepared. It was my own special recipe of a two-thirds bucketful of wheat bran, crushed oats, molasses, chopped carrots, sliced apples, coarse sea salt, MSM, and boiling water. Stirred well. When cooled to lukewarm, I’d offered it to Boston. I believed it aided mares’ digestion, warded off colic, and calmed them throughout their labor. Theo watched me with his exophthalmic eyes. Now I picked up a flashlight from the hay bale, quietly slid open the heavy door and went into the stall. The deep straw rustled underfoot. I smelled clean horse, hot bran, molasses, apples and the sunshine that was trapped in the hay. Boston raised her head from the mash. Her lips and nose were covered in sticky wet bran. She had a drunk-happy look in her eyes. She made swallowing sounds as she gazed at me. Then she dipped her nose into the concoction and resumed her sloppy eating. As I re-entered my old role as a mid-wife to mares, I felt happy. I touched her shoulder, felt its faint sheen of in-labor sweat, ran my hand along her back, bent, shone my flashlight at the distended bag. The amber wax seal had popped off one teat and a drop of colostrum-rich milk quivered in its place. The hollows on her spine had deepened. I raised her tail. The vulva was swollen. “I better wash your bottom, Boston.”

I went out into the aisle and found a clean bucket. Theo jumped up. “Kin Ah help?”

“In a sec. You can hold the bucket for me.”

“Whatcha doin?”

“Got to wash off her backside. Then wrap her tail.”

“Oh. Sure glad you’re here. I wouldn’t know to do any of that.”

I filled the bucket with warm water and found some Betadine disinfectant scrub. I also grabbed a new vet wrap, lime green. Scissors were in my foaling box. I returned to the stall, Theo trailing. I handed him the bucket. First I wrapped up the mare’s tail with the stretchy vet wrap, a material that clung to itself. When the entire tail was wrapped and had become a lime-green stub, I squirted Betadine over the mare’s buttocks and vulva. Dipped a clean hand towel into the warm water and proceeded to wash and disinfect the entire area. The mare endured this with her head in the feed bucket, vacuuming up bran. I rinsed her thoroughly, stepped back and grinned at Theo. I spoke to the mare.

“Milady. You may foal any time now.”

She kept eating.

I settled back into my lawn chair. The dark barn with all the ceiling fans running had a bearable temperature of about 85°. May was almost too late for foaling, this far south. The daytime heat could cause heatstroke and kill babies. So, this foal would probably need to be kept in during the day and let out at night until it got to six weeks of age. Would Theo be on hand to do this?

Theo sat down opposite me. We shared the hay bale as a table. He dove into the Chinese food bag. I suspected he was one of those skinny types with monster metabolisms that just had to eat huge quantities frequently. I ate an egg roll, drank some coffee, and what the hell–a Snickers and opened the book. Read a few sentences. Then just basked in the joy I felt, waiting on a healthy, mare to produce a foal. Outside, the night sounds had taken over. Crickets, mating frogs, the hoot of an owl. Other scrabblings I didn’t care to label. The dogs slept. We didn’t dare talk too much because it might unsettle the mare. Just outside the back barn door ran the neighbor lady’s fenceline. I smiled to see six cows and the bull collected there. Some lying down, all looking with interest at us. Were they attracted to the lamplight? Or, on some primal level, did they sense a birth was pending, and they too wanted to be here to welcome the new life? This heavily pregnant mare must be giving off pheromones of some sort, I’d guess.

I wondered how many times Marcie had sat right here at night, watched by the cows, Domino at her feet, a mare in the foaling stall.

Marcie, if you’re out there, please be with us now. Help me help Boston. Be a part of this,
I thought into the night. The night’s answer was a continuation of insect sounds, and a zephyr softly riffling tree leaves.

I got quiet and relaxed in my chair. The mare stopped eating and paced around the stall. I got alert. After two turns around the twenty-four by twelve-foot space, Boston went back to the mash. I re-settled myself. I was almost nodding off when a faint sound came to my ear. I didn’t move; I opened my eyes part way. Met Theo’s and saw alarm in his. Was somebody sneaking up on us? Maybe it
hadn’t
been Anton. I still had my funny feeling about that. Maybe Theo’s assailant had returned. We had no weapons! What idiots, I thought, going all swoony over the mare, forgetting to protect ourselves! Movement–there–the corner of my eye, at the farthest part of the barn’s aisle, up toward the house. Theo and I stared at each other. His eyes grew even wider. We were exposed, spotlighted, beside the tiny lamp on the hay bale. But turning it off might be the wrong kind of acknowledgement. We kept still and slowly I turned my head toward the sound. Saw nothing. There was some light spilling into the barn from the moon and a yardlight outside on a tall pole. Then–movement! I held my breath. A shape, coming down the aisle, with casual deliberateness, casting a huge shadow. Not, thank God, human, unless the human was rounded and walking on all fours. I felt alarm–a young bear? Hard to judge size from here. The creature paused and moved forward.
What was it doing?
I could feel Theo’s intensity. I wished I could see in the dark. Beside me I felt a stirring. Lulu. Rising to a standing position. Now Domino was up. I put a hand on Lu ‘s neck, said, “Hush,” before she could let out her first woof. I stared intently.
What the hell was it?

It was closer now. It would have to be a juvenile, if it was a bear. It had stopped and now I could see a nose snuffing around on the aisle. Feed. Horses had dribbled bits of feed outside their stalls and the creature was eating this. Domino was quiet under Theo’s hand. Now Theo and I dared a tight grin at each other. The animal came closer, giving no sign it had noticed us. Lulu was tense, eager under my restraining hand. Nearer, nearer–suddenly the creature reared up and I saw the black and white coloring, the masked face–a raccoon. It threw its hands up like a startled little person and looked at us aghast. I laughed out loud. The raccoon dropped to all fours, turned and ran, striped tail straight up. Lu lunged. Then Domino and both dogs flashed after it with Theo and me out of our chairs yelling, “Lulu!
Lu
! Domino! Dom! Quit! Get back here!” In moments, the dogs gave up the chase and, tongues lolling, returned. My heart pounded but I couldn’t stop laughing. Theo too. Obviously, this stroll down the aisle was part of the animal’s nightly routine and we’d surprised it. I was sinking, chuckling, into the lawn chair when I heard Boston begin to urinate. And urinate. And…urinate? Omigod! Her water breaking? The sound became like a waterfall and I knew the labor had advanced. I slid open the stall door a crack and scooted my chair over so I could watch without interfering. Theo moved up behind me and peered around my shoulder. We exchanged huge smiles. Carefully, the mare lay down. I could see her pushing. A tiny hoof appeared beneath her tail, the lime-green stump. Then she got up, turned around, and lay down again. I stood so I could see, Theo right with me. In a few moments, two hooves showed, one coyly ahead of the other. The mare’s sides heaved. I saw sweat over her flank. When the mare rose yet again, I knew I was watching a pro of a broodmare. The switching of positions, which changed how the pressure of her weight aided the contractions, was something one never saw in inexperienced mares. This old lady knew what she was doing, and it was a thrill to watch her.

She rose again and reversed sides. The fourth time she lay down, I was glad her buttocks were towards me, because the foal’s nose appeared, laid tight against its pointed-forward legs. I always thought foals looked like little divers, with their body position of hooves pointed forward, head and neck aligned snugly along them. There was a plopping sound and the head and shoulders emerged. Placenta covered the foal’s nose, but I waited. Until the cord was broken, the foal was still operating under its dam’s oxygen. The mare grunted once, twice and the entire baby slithered wetly out. Then quickly, Boston got to her feet, and this ripped the natal cord in two. The ripping process also caused any bleeding to be minimal. I darted into the stall and pulled the placenta from the foal’s nose and saw the wet, ribby sides heave. It was breathing.

I turned and smiled at Theo. I was filled with joy. Then I unstopped a bottle I’d tucked into my jeans pocket. Iodine to disinfect the navel. An easy nudge on the foal’s shoulder and its belly was exposed. It was a filly. I pushed the wide mouth of the jar against the stump of the cord and held it there, gently sloshing it around to make sure the whole area was thoroughly treated. The filly raised her neck and I was thrilled to see the length. A jaggedy white blaze rippled down the small face. Huge eyes encountered mine and the tiny creature whinnied in a falsetto voice. Boston answered with a deep anxious neigh. I backed up as the mare turned, placing her feet carefully. When she was around, she touched noses with her foal. The baby whinnied again. From a far pasture another horse answered, then another and soon it sounded like the entire herd was whinnying in a welcome chorus to the newborn. The mare began licking the foal. I whispered to Theo.

“See? Mother and child are bonding. Want to grab that imprinting kit I made up?”

Theo got me the box and I set it down and went to the foal. I motioned to Theo. “Come here, Daddy. Wrap your arms around her and hold her firmly.”

He knelt in the straw and did as I asked. The foal struggled against him. “Hang on,” I said, “Gentle but firm.”

“Gotcha.” He held on. He couldn’t stop grinning. I saw the foal relax in his arms.

“Okay. That’s good. She’s accepted you. Let go now.”

Now the foal knew that humans were stronger, and it would carry this illusion throughout the rest of its life. This plus all the other activities I was about to perform on the foal would make its life with humans almost stress-free. No terror of being handled, no fights for supremacy, no fear of strange noises like spray bottles, or the buzz of clippers. So when the weanling was sprayed to ward off flies it wouldn’t fight the scary sound; the sound would feel comfortable, familiar, likewise, the clippers. The foal lay between us. I put a tiny foal halter on its head. The filly tossed it off. I put it back on and then off and on until she accepted it. I handed Theo a brush and while he brushed her sides, I squirted her with a spray bottle, then ran noisy cordless clippers over her ears and nose. Finally, I had Theo hoist her to a standing position and I picked up each of her feet, tapped on the little hooves with a hoofpick and set them down. Then I motioned Theo to gently lower the foal back into the straw. The whole procedure took less than five minutes.

“Okay. She’s imprinted. We need to repeat this every day for three days and you will have a happy horse for life.” I packed up the box and left the stall. Now it was time for the foal to learn to stand and nurse. We backed off, to outside the stall but watched through the half-open door. The foal struggled to its feet, took one step sideways, and keeled over, bouncing in the soft deep straw. The mare watched anxiously, giving little nickers of encouragement. Again the foal struggled to manage its spidery legs, and rise. Gorgeous. Head and neck like a little seahorse.
Marcie, feel proud! You are a great breeder.
The legs looked straight, and now the little girl was up on them and staggering to her mother’s side. The mare, seeing this, turned her body and backed slightly to position herself so the filly could find a teat. The small nose poked and tried to suckle the mare’s leg, her belly, the green tail stump, and after trying many unrewarding parts of its mother, finally the nose touched a nipple and the foal latched on and suckled.