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NOLA KNOX
Monday, June 15, 2020
The fawn-colored mare lay in the dry dirt, rolling from side to side, hooves kicking. Dust swirled around her like ground fog. Nola reached for the horse’s lead and urged the animal to her feet. She ran a calloused hand along the mare’s belly. It was distended and rock hard.
“How long has she been like this?” Nola asked, facing the horse, one hand on the mare’s scapula and the other over the hip joint, a stance that was meant to calm. Bijou, an American quarter horse, huffed and reared. She was suffering, her eyes wild with pain. Nola reached into her bag and prepared a syringe. Something to take the edge off. Experience told her that this horse was beyond help.
“She started acting weird yesterday,” the rancher said as he kicked dust off his expensive cowboy boots.
“Weird how?” Nola asked, biting back an impatient sigh. She needed details. Specifics.
“She kept pawing at the ground with her hoof like she was trying to dig something up,” the owner’s teenage daughter, a mousy wisp of a thing, said. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Was she looking down at her abdomen, biting at it and sweating a lot?” Nola asked, though she was already certain of the answer.
They both nodded. “We thought she got overheated because of the high temps,” he said. “We gave her plenty of water,” he said defensively. “She just wouldn’t drink it.” Father and daughter both winced as Nola inserted the needle into the thick muscle of Bijou’s sweaty flank.
“Hopefully this will relax her, ease some of her pain. Let’s get her to the stable,” Nola directed. “I can examine her better there.” Bijou fought as they made their way to the barn, a brand-new structure that had more windows and square footage than most homes. Inside, an acrid ammonia smell prickled Nola’s nose. “No one changed her bedding,” she said, glancing down at the foul-smelling straw. She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.
Uneaten grain remained in Bijou’s bin—a perfect petri dish for mold. Right now, the state of Bijou’s living quarters was the least of her worries. Some people shouldn’t have the right to be horse owners, Nola thought as she got Bijou situated into the stall’s doorway.
The close quarters settled the mare a bit. Though Bijou was no longer rearing back on her haunches she stretched her neck out, her mouth opening and closing in a series of yawns.
“She’s sleepy,” the girl said. “That’s good right? The medicine is making her feel better?”
“She’s not sleepy,” Nola murmured and reached for her stethoscope. “It’s one way a horse tries to calm itself. She is stressed and in pain.” Nola inserted the ear tips and pressed the chest piece to Bijou’s flank, moving the silver disc every few seconds while the two looked on anxiously. “You should have called me right away.” Nola ripped the stethoscope from her ears and tossed it aside. “Looks like a twisted bowel.”
“Is that bad?” the daughter asked.
“Very bad when it’s not caught early enough.” Again Nola reached into her bag and this time pulled out a package of surgical gloves and a large tube of topical anesthetic. She applied the cream while Bijou pawed at the ground and snuffled, her nostrils flaring.
“I’ve been out of town for work,” the rancher stammered. “We had no idea she was this bad off.”
Despite the size of the barn, the air was stifling. The rancher’s shirt was stained with sweat and beads of perspiration dotted the girl’s nose, magnifying her freckles. Nola used her forearm to wipe her own face, her eyes burning from the salt. “Did you do zero research when you decided to buy this animal?” Nola asked angrily.
The man wasn’t used to being talked to in such a manner, not accustomed to being challenged in the boardroom let alone his own backyard. “Now listen,” he began but trailed off when Nola slid her gloved hand into Bijou’s rectum.
“Her large colon is twisted. You have two choices here,” Nola explained. “We transport Bijou to the clinic for emergency surgery or we euthanize her.”
“Wait, what?” the daughter squeaked, eyes wide with fear. “She’s dying?”
“As we speak.” Nola pulled off the gloves with a snap. “What do you want to do?”
“How much will surgery cost?” The father rubbed a smooth hand across his face.
“Daddy!” the girl cried. “We want the operation.”
“Six to eight thousand and that’s just for the surgery. Follow-up care will be more,” Nola said and gently ran her fingers across Bijou’s back. “What do you want to do?” There was no response. She reached into her bag for another syringe and another vial. She pulled back the plunger and inserted the needle into the rubber top, filling the syringe with a clear liquid.
“What is that?” the rancher asked staring at the long needle. “What are you doing?”
“It’s sodium pentobarbital.” She tapped the syringe to remove any air bubbles. “What do you want to do?” Nola repeated. “Every second you wait lessens her chance of survival, increases her suffering.”
“I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t know.” He looked back and forth between Bijou and his daughter.
“Make a decision,” Nola snapped. “The pain medication I’ve given Bijou isn’t keeping up with the strangling of her bowel.”
“Daddy,” the girl cried, grabbing onto her father’s arm. “She has to have the surgery.”
