This was a frigid morning at the barn, with temperatures in the teens and snow and ice spotted here and there on the frozen ground. I’d finished my chores; it was lunchtime for the horses and I was about to leave when Annette, the barn owner, dashed around the far corner of the barn, crying that a horse was down on the ice!
Diane, another boarder, and I raced over to find Annette and her husband, Dickie, standing by a horse lying flat on its side, on a solid sheet of ice in a low spot of the paddock. I felt sick with dread when I saw it was Pretty, a severely malnourished mare whose rescuer had brought her to the barn a couple of months ago. She had arrived a walking skeleton, with lower legs grossly swollen and barely able to function. Since then, she’d gained some weight, and the edema had lessened with her new owner’s devoted care, gentle handwalking and standing wraps. But this was a horse, still gaunt, with no reserves of body fat or energy, in a desperate plight that can kill healthy horses. We didn’t know how long she’d been down; but it was 11:00 a.m. and she’d been turned out around 7:00, in a paddock out of sight unless you went around that corner of the barn.
Diane ran to her van and brought back a bag of sand so we could get some traction on the ice. Then the four of us tried to roll Pretty onto her belly so she could get to her feet. Pretty didn’t fight us; but she didn’t fight to regain her feet, either. We were able to shift her near the edge of the ice, but she wouldn’t even try to get up, and when we let her go, she sagged back flat on her side. Her eye was dull; she was shivering despite the turnout blanket covering her body; and she seemed oblivious to anything outside her hypothermic misery.
Diane and I bolted into the barn, snatched up horse blankets, and ran back out. While Annette slipped a Navaho saddle blanket under Pretty’s head and neck, Diane and I draped the blankets over her neck, shoulders and hindquarters. I tucked blanket ends under her legs as far as I could reach. All the while, Pretty lay unmoving and uncaring.
Annette was in tears by now; she left to call the vet and Kelly, Pretty’s owner. Dickie (not a horse person) retreated to his pickup; Diane left briefly to do necessary chores; and I stayed with Pretty, stroking her face and talking to her. I was saying goodbye to the poor girl; I didn’t think she’d ever get up again.
After several minutes, some life came stealing back into Pretty’s eyes. She began feebly thrashing her legs, now and then – a futile, slight movement, but a hopeful sign that the terrible drain of her vitality had stopped! When a horse in the adjoining paddock broke some ice with a loud crack, Pretty twitched her head up and her ears and eyes toward it. Then, oh, then I began to hope!
In a few more minutes Annette returned with news that the vet and Kelly were both on their way. With Diane also there, we tried again to get Pretty to stand, but she still wouldn’t make any attempt. We let her rest. I felt under her hindquarters and found them soaked with ice melt. Annette and I sped to the tack room and grabbed a thick saddle pad and polar fleece sheet. I bundled the sheet under Pretty’s head and neck for more insulation against the ice. Then Diane and I each took a hind leg and rolled Pretty’s hindquarters as far over as we could while I stuffed the saddle pad under her legs and rump, as far as I was able. Thank heavens Pretty didn’t start kicking then; I’d have got a hoof (unshod but still dangerous) in the face if she had.
In a few more minutes, as Pretty lay quietly but with the shivering diminishing, Kelly arrived. She checked Pretty over for injuries, massaged her belly for a while (we had some suspicion, later disproven, that the mare might have colicked); then, as Pretty seemed more alert, we tried yet again to get her up. We had to get her off that ice!
Kelly clipped a lead rope to her halter; I grabbed the shoulder of the blanket she was wearing; Annette seized it at Pretty’s rump; Diane took hold of her tail. Then together we heaved – and she came onto her belly! We heaved – and she thrashed her legs under her! We heaved – and she staggered to her feet! She looked for a moment as if she’d go down again; then she steadied and stood, what little reserves she had almost exhausted in the tremendous effort of getting up.
Diane and Annette hurried into the barn, to move the ponies out of the indoor arena. Kelly coaxed Pretty to take a step, another, another, and got her to walk into the building. I stayed at the mare’s hip, pushing her to walk and then ready to catch her if she wobbled into another fall. Once she was inside, we stripped off the blanket she was wearing – a water-resistant turnout rug that was soaked through with ice melt. We layered her with wicking polar fleece and warm stable blankets, and moved her into the sun by the door. Amazingly, she was already perking up enough by then to want the hay we offered her! I left before the vet arrived, but no longer dreading that Pretty would die.
And how is she tonight? Sore on the side that had slammed into the ice when she fell; sore on her muzzle where smacking her teeth into the ice had chopped off an inch-long strip of lip; but bright-eyed, eating well, and warm. What a relief! I was only a small part of saving her, but so glad I could help.
