Since making our home at City Limit Stables, Murray has: pulled a check ligament, been kicked in the forearm by Maggie (causing football-like swelling in his knee), and kicked himself on the inner part of his cannon bone (again, causing serious swelling and leaving a nasty-looking, but superficial gash). None of his injuries required a vet-- until now.
Friday May 14th.
Murray has his hooves trimmed and shoes reset. I ride him that evening. He seems off. I'm not that concerned, he does occasionally get sore after being re-shod. I take him for a walk around the property and call it a night.
Saturday May 15th.
Murray has the day off.
Sunday May 16th.
Dave and I are puttering around outside. We fill up the water bucket in the pasture. As Murray comes up for a drink, we see that he's licking his lips obsessively, and sticking his tongue out and twisting his head. Then he rubs his lips on the fence, and on the ground. Something is clearly bothering him.
I bring him in, I check his mouth but find nothing. While I groom him, the licking lessens. I tack him up and go for a ride. We warm up on a loose rein. There's a slight touch of unsoundness in our first few turns, then it disappears (again, not too worrisome for a boy of his age). I take up contact on the reins. His head shoots up and he stops. I try again. As soon as the right rein tightens, he shakes his head as though a fly has landed on his nose. We try this a couple of times, and things improve...well, things change. He stops shaking his head when I pick up the right rein, but now he's leaning on my left rein and is not willing to flex or bend to the left at all. He's also struggling to canter on the left lead. I have a short ride, and check his mouth again. I don't see anything. I begin to think that he may be sore behind, and that the head-shaking is a reaction to being asked to step underneath of himself a bit more.
Monday May 17th.
I ride Murray again. Again, it's the same. He's fine on a long rein, but as soon as I pick up contact, he clearly becomes agitated. Bending him to the left is almost impossible. Things improve as the ride goes on, but he's clearly not comfortable. There still don't seem to be any problems with his mouth. He's eating fine, and chewing fine.
I check his back. It's slightly tender, but that's quite normal for him too, especially now. I bought him a new saddle a few years ago to accommodate his changing, ageing body. But his mountainous withers have become more prominent, even since then, and his back seems to sink ever lower and lower. As a result, even his "new" saddle doesn't fit him perfectly. I think that perhaps one of his stifles (rear knee joint) is acting up. I start him on bute (anti-inflammatory).
Tuesday May 18th.
It's hot. Murray is lethargic and hounded by flies. I give Maggie a bath, and give him the day off.
Wednesday, May 19th.
Murray has now had four doses of bute. He should be feeling no pain. I ride. It's the same thing. He shakes his head on contact, he leans on my left hand and avoids all contact on the right rein. I take things very slowly and ride with a very soft hand, and by the end, he's going better than I would have expected, but something's still not right.
Thursday, May 20th
Before I turn Murray out, I feed him an apple. He has no problem crunching through its crisp core. I check his mouth again anyway. I run my fingers along the pink flesh on the bars of his mouth (the space between his incisors and molars-- the place where the bit sits). On the left side, all is fine. I move to the right, and before I even pry his mouth open, I notice that there seems to be some swelling along his jaw, just in front of his pre-molars. I slip my fingers into his slimy mouth. The flesh on this side feels different, like a soft sack. Before I can explore too much, he jerks his head up and away. I try again. He yanks his head away. I try pressing on that area from the outside of his mouth. He is NOT happy. BINGO. There's something wrong here. I call the vet for advice. He wants to come out and see for himself. At this age, he says it's not uncommon for horses' molars to split. He says he can be out in a couple of hours. I'm beginning to think I should get a preferred customer discount. *sigh*
11:00am
The vet gives Murray a sedative and pries open his mouth with a metal contraption that evokes images of Hannibal Lecter's famous mask. Even in his drowsy state, Murray lets it be known that poking and prodding on the the right side of his lower jaw is painful. When the vet squeezes on that side, he uncoordinatedly jerks his head up, or sideways.
The teeth seem fine. None are lose or cracked. The only thing the vet finds is a very small (about 2mm wide) scrape, or prick on the inside of Murray's cheek. Much to Murray's dislike, he pushes all around it to see whether there might be a thorn, or a tiny piece of hay, or anything stuck inside. He doesn't come across anything, and there's no tell-tale stench of infection.
The vet concludes it's one of three things:
1.a brewing abscess in the root of the tooth. It doesn't seem likely to me, and the vet seems to think that's the least likely scenario too.
2. a hairline fracture in his lower jaw. This is the diagnosis the vet seems to be leaning toward. It's entirely possibly, but I would be surprised, only because the swelling is pretty moderate, and when Murray gets even a scratch, it usually swells to balloon-like proportions.
3. there's a foreign body stuck in his cheek, and there's an infection festering there. I tend to think this is the most likely explanation. The vet says usually horses don't have a whole lot of pain with something like that, but he doesn't know Murray that well. He doesn't know what a complete and utter wimp he is.
In either case, the vet says "wait and see" is the best plan of action for now. Five more days of bute, just to help Murray feel a bit better. Call him (the vet) back in 10 days with an update-- unless of course things get worse. Here's hoping that whatever this is will simply clear up on its own. With Murray's luck, that's not entirely likely.
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Maggie's Aftermath
Monday, April 12, 2010
5:45am
I last checked on Maggie sometime around Midnight. I iced her legs one more time, then poulticed and bandaged them for the night. I considered spending the night in the barn with her, but was worried she might be more stressed and less likely to relax with me there.
I'm anxious to get to the barn, but I'm also afraid. All kind of scenarios have invaded my head: Maggie always lays down at night, but what if she did, and couldn't get back up because of the pain in her legs, or abdomen? What if she has punctured a bowel and has been shivering and thrashing in extreme pain for the last few hours? What if, what if?
The blackness of the night is just beginning to ease as I shakily make my way to the barn. I step through the door, into the feedroom. There are no noises from the stalls beyond. Normally in the morning, the horses are banging on their doors, demanding to be fed. Not this morning-- then again, I'm about 2 hours ahead of schedule. I walk into the isle way and flick the light switch. The bulb takes a few seconds to reach its full intensity, but I can make out the outline of Maggie's hind end in her stall, so I know she's on her feet. Blinking, she swings her head toward me then slowly shuffles around until she's facing the door. She looks ok, groggy, but no signs of extreme distress.
Her hind legs have that swollen, stove-pipe look to them-- right from stifle to hoof. I palpate her belly. There's definite bruising, but nothing that leads me to believe there's internal damage (not that I'm 100 percent sure what to look for). I move onto her gums. They're back to their normal colour (they were quite pale last night), and there are no signs of the "muddy purple" that would mean she's heading for septic shock. She didn't drink much overnight, but then she rarely does.
I take off her bandages, re-wrap her legs with ice packs, and give her a light breakfast. She's still scarfing down her hay. That's a good sign. When she's finished, I take her outside to cold hose her legs. Leaving the stall is a slow process. She takes tiny, hesitant, painful steps, but the more she walks, the easier it seems to get. Murray whinnies to her from his stall. She doesn't answer. I let ice-cold water splash over her legs for 5-10 minutes. With her legs numbed by the cold, I lead her for a short walk down the gravel path behind the house. She balks a bit as we pass by the twisted metal gate, it's top wrung still smeared with her blood.
I give Maggie more bute, and turn her out alone in a small, sunlit paddock behind the barn. A worried Murray is close at hand on the other side of the fence. He reaches out to her and they nuzzle briefly before Maggie shuffles stiffly toward to a patch of grass. I call the vet and wait to hear back so we can arrange a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.
5:45am
I last checked on Maggie sometime around Midnight. I iced her legs one more time, then poulticed and bandaged them for the night. I considered spending the night in the barn with her, but was worried she might be more stressed and less likely to relax with me there.
I'm anxious to get to the barn, but I'm also afraid. All kind of scenarios have invaded my head: Maggie always lays down at night, but what if she did, and couldn't get back up because of the pain in her legs, or abdomen? What if she has punctured a bowel and has been shivering and thrashing in extreme pain for the last few hours? What if, what if?
The blackness of the night is just beginning to ease as I shakily make my way to the barn. I step through the door, into the feedroom. There are no noises from the stalls beyond. Normally in the morning, the horses are banging on their doors, demanding to be fed. Not this morning-- then again, I'm about 2 hours ahead of schedule. I walk into the isle way and flick the light switch. The bulb takes a few seconds to reach its full intensity, but I can make out the outline of Maggie's hind end in her stall, so I know she's on her feet. Blinking, she swings her head toward me then slowly shuffles around until she's facing the door. She looks ok, groggy, but no signs of extreme distress.
Her hind legs have that swollen, stove-pipe look to them-- right from stifle to hoof. I palpate her belly. There's definite bruising, but nothing that leads me to believe there's internal damage (not that I'm 100 percent sure what to look for). I move onto her gums. They're back to their normal colour (they were quite pale last night), and there are no signs of the "muddy purple" that would mean she's heading for septic shock. She didn't drink much overnight, but then she rarely does.
I take off her bandages, re-wrap her legs with ice packs, and give her a light breakfast. She's still scarfing down her hay. That's a good sign. When she's finished, I take her outside to cold hose her legs. Leaving the stall is a slow process. She takes tiny, hesitant, painful steps, but the more she walks, the easier it seems to get. Murray whinnies to her from his stall. She doesn't answer. I let ice-cold water splash over her legs for 5-10 minutes. With her legs numbed by the cold, I lead her for a short walk down the gravel path behind the house. She balks a bit as we pass by the twisted metal gate, it's top wrung still smeared with her blood.
I give Maggie more bute, and turn her out alone in a small, sunlit paddock behind the barn. A worried Murray is close at hand on the other side of the fence. He reaches out to her and they nuzzle briefly before Maggie shuffles stiffly toward to a patch of grass. I call the vet and wait to hear back so we can arrange a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Not a Good Day
I just experienced the most frightening, traumatic event of my life.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
I always expect Murray to find a way to do something stupid. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be Maggie who would send me running with weak knees to phone the vet...or anyone, anyone who might be able to help.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd headed for the wooden fence rails, but I have no idea what compelled my sweet, sensible Maggie to try and jump the five foot high metal gate to her paddock. No idea at all.
Sunday, April 11, 6:30 pm
I don't normally bring the horses in until between 7 and 7:30pm, but despite the bright sunshine beaming down on our hilltop stable, there's a sharp cold wind that chills to the bone, so I decide to tuck the horses in a bit early.
On my way to the barn, I see the horses standing contentedly in the pasture, leisurely tugging at fresh stalks of green grass.
Before I bring them in, I head to Maggie's stall to sweep up her bedding, and toss in a flake of hay. A movement outside her stall window catches my eye. I look out. I see Maggie galloping across the paddock, and Murray dancing sideways in his nervous, spooky way. The rest still seems surreal. Maggie is flying flat-out, toward the gate. She has, in the past, galloped to the gate and come to a sliding stop, but this time, she's not slowing down, she's speeding up. She launches herself awkwardly over the gate.
Maggie's over-weight, un-athletic body can't keep up with her enthusiastic spirit. Her front legs mostly clear the gate, but she doesn't have enough power to lift her hind-end up and over. There's a heart-stopping crash, then the sound of splintering wood as the fence rails beside the gate shatter like glass. Unfortunately, the gate itself, while slightly askew, holds fast. I run. I swear at the top of my lungs and I run.
It seems like ages, but I know it's only seconds until I make it to her side at the paddock. I'm horrified by what I see. Maggie is like a teeter totter balancing on the metal gate. Her head is down, nostrils flared, gasping for air. Her front toes just, and only just, touch the ground. Her entire hind end is suspended in the air, held in place by the metal gate which has wedged itself firmly at the back of her belly, in front of her stifles. One hind leg is dangling loose, the other is caught in the fence boards that meet the gate at a 90 degree angle.
I try and unhook the chain on the gate, but Maggie is directly on top of it. All her weight is pressing down on the gate, making it difficult for her to breathe, and making it impossible for me to loosen the chain. To make things worse, she starts thrashing around whenever I try and reach for it. I put my hand on her side, try telling her to whoa, to stay still, but she turns her head and punches me violently in my side with her muzzle. She does this again and again, trying to prod me into action, but I'm helpless. I'm home alone. I have no close neighbours, and there's nothing, nothing I can do.
I always think of myself as someone who stays calm under pressure, the kind of person who can take over in an emergency. I've held tourniquets against horses' blood-spurting arteries while waiting for the vet. I've stroked horses necks as they were given their final lethal injections. But these were never my horses, and I was never in a situation like this.
I try to lift the gate off its hinges, but it's bent, and with Maggie's 1250 lbs on top of it, I know it's impossible anyway. I kick at the fence post, but it's firmly planted in the ground. Helpless, I leave her. I turn my back on her and I run away. I look in Dave's workshop for something heavy, something I can use to bash at the post until the whole thing tumbles down. All I can find is a metal shovel and a pick-axe. I know they're not going to work. Not in time.
I remember that our one neighbour, the dairy farming family living 400 metres down the road gave me their phone number the other day. I run inside my house, I desperately dial their number, hoping that the men will have some kind of equipment, or at least enough brute strength to knock down the gate. Their phone rings. There's no answer, and I remember that they were going to a church supper tonight. I glance out the window. Maggie's still hanging, struggling, gasping. I'm truly panicking now. My legs are weak, my arms are shaking. The tears are rolling down my cheeks. I'm convinced I'm going to watch my sweet girl slowly die a painful death.
Dave is an hour away, about to pilot a plane into the air with his instructor in toe. I call him anyway, even though I know there's nothing he can do. I get his voicemail. Desperate, I grab the pick-axe and the shovel and run, trembling and still swearing back to where Maggie is dangling. I try the gate again, it's no use. I try shaking and pushing the post. It won't budge. Maggie starts flailing frantically. Her right hind leg splinters what's left of the wooden rail running perpendicular to the fence. Somehow in her desperation (perhaps it's that last kick at the fence rail), she manages to get a bit of leverage. Her front feet are fully on the ground now, and using her own brute strength, she kicks, wiggles, flails and heaves her body until she's up, over and off the gate.
I'm overcome with relief; but I'm still incredibly worried. Maggie sways and wobbles her way into the open gate of the neighbouring pasture. The one that leads to her stall door (which is closed). Her eyes are glassy, her head is down, her breathing laboured. She's clearly in shock. I run and grab her halter. I put it over her head, but I can't take her inside.
Murray is still in the paddock. Poor Murray-- who turns 22 today-- has been dancing, spinning, nickering, and fretting this whole time. His eyes are wide, his tail is up, and he's clearly frightened. The further away Maggie wanders, the more stressed he becomes. He wants to be out of the paddock. He wants to be close to Maggie, but he's too spooked to let me near him. I can't leave him. The fence is broken, the gate is twisted and bent. In his adrenalin-hyped state, he's likely to do exactly what Maggie did. He's far more likely to succeed, but I'm not about to take that chance.
I plead with him, "please, please let me catch you. I need to help Maggie". But it does no good. I try to calm myself and talk with him casually, but he can sense my panic too, and he dodges me and tries to shove his way through the slightly open gate. I yell at him and he backs off. I need to get to Maggie, so I take a chance. I wrestle the mangled gate open wide enough to allow him to go through, and I run to grab Maggie. Murray blasts through the gate and heads to the front of the barn. He prances nervously until I bring Maggie through the door, then he follows us in, and runs to his stall. Thank you Murray. I'm not sure what I would have done if he'd decided to head for the road or the woods instead.
I give Maggie a quick look-over--there is no spurting blood, no severed arteries, many scrapes and cuts though, and they're already starting to swell. I cover her with a cooler to help control her shock, and I call the vet. The trouble with this is that I haven't yet found a vet. Several names have been suggested to me though, so I scroll through the phone book (still in a panic), and call the first name I come to that I actually recognize.
The vet on-call is in Truro. I tell him what happened, I tell him I'm most worried about possible internal damage. He kindly tells me that if she's ruptured her spleen or kidney or bowel, there's nothing that can be done for her, so there's not much point in him coming out to check on her. He suggests I give her bute (anti-inflammatory), hose and ice her legs, keep a very good eye on her, and get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics for her in the morning. I would have liked to have a vet look at her, just to make me feel better, but he's right, I can handle the external damage to her legs, and the internal, well, we just have to hope there isn't any.
11:57 pm
I've hosed Maggie's stifles twice. I've iced her lower legs twice. There's so much heat and swelling that the ice melts, and the packs turn warm within minutes. Happily though, Maggie hasn't lost her appetite. She's not too keen on the bran mash (which is laced with bute), but she's eating her hay with her usual gusto. Now I just wish she'd drink some water.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)