What a difference a day makes. Or, a week. Or just plain old time.
The day I blogged about following Oliver around, stressing about his health and aging process, was a stressful day. By the time the "feeding frenzy," as I call it, rolled around, I was maxed out.
The feeding frenzy occurs between 3:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. I feed the 3 dogs, who are getting the bulk of their medications (those that need them). There is a particular dance to this process. Pick up the three bowls. Fill them with the appropriate amount of homemade dog food (which we tweaked, so we now have 2 recipes, older guys, and younger girl), add the necessary medications and/or supplements. Meanwhile, the three dogs are at my feet, staring. Well, Ollie isn't staring, he's mostly blind. But, he's there, looking up and dog, shifting his weight in anticipation. Casey is whining. Loudly. The frequency increases the longer it takes me. I am much too slow for him. Jacki sits politely, waiting, tail wagging.
Pick up 2 prepared bowls for Ollie and Casey. Casey now realizes what is going on and starts to hop around on his back legs, which is very bad for him, so I am expedient in my delivery time. I have to hold his little dish just over his head, keeping his attention on it, so he will follow it. Meanwhile, I am lowering Oliver's dish down in front of his nose, as he follows the smell, placing it on his mat for him to enjoy. Casey is hopping in circles (NO!!!) until I put his down on his box, which he dives into like a fiend. Jacki waits patiently. I grab her bowl and place it in her stand, grab 2 treats for Coco, our 12 year old Maincoon cat, who has joined the party, looking for treats on the kitchen island.
Ok. Dogs are good. They will need to go out in the front yard after dinner for poop time.
I head to the barn, bring the horses in, stir and grab their feed from the tack room where I strategically also feed the barn cats that we cannot let outside yet, placing their dishes down just before I exit so they are not interested in sneaking out the door. I deliver said horse feed, and head back to the house to let the dogs out. Once the dogs have their daily constitution and a jaunt in the yard (as I am helping Ollie up and down the stairs, picking poop and tossing in the woods) I go BACK to the barn, pick the paddock, give the horses a once over, grab their bowls and set up breakfast. Everyone is acting like their normal selves and pets are settled in for the night.
Well, on this particularly stressful day of following Oliver, I am ready to get in the car and go somewhere, anywhere, for a much needed attitude adjustment. I rush out to meet a girlfriend to get my toes done at a local shop, but they are too busy, so I pass on that, and we go to dinner, enjoying some Chardonnay as a reward for surviving another exceptionally stressful day.
I am looking forward to tomorrow.
Unfortunately, fate felt otherwise. My day was not through.
That night, my mare, Katy, had a bad colic. We found her laying in the snow, caked in ice.
Katy's had numerous health issues, so at first, we weren't sure what was going on with her. Colic? Another bout of lyme or erlichea? Hormonal issue? She wasn't presenting typical colic signs, and has no history of colic. But a history of weird health issues, she has had. No temp, definitely uncomfortable, but not necessarily an emergency (I am not one to call the vet right away until I know it's something I cannot manage and have luckily managed 95% of their issues with my vets approvals and blessings). We give her medication and check her an hour later. She is more comfortable, so we wait til morning, assuming whatever she is battling will have subsided.
Wrong. She is worse in the morning. so I call my local vet right away. Something is wrong and she is not working out of it this time. I walk her over an hour, talking, begging, with an occasional shout at no one in particular: WHY is this happening?? My POOR "kids!!!"
The vet comes; it's colic and probably life threatening. After reaching, past his elbow into her rectum, she has an obvious problem. The day shrinks away and all I see is her, her pain, and my inability to help. My husband turns around and comes home from work (now you KNOW it's serious). We call a neighbor, who comes to dig a hole. We discuss where, how big, etc. the hole should be and what will happen when it is time for Katy to be placed in it. My head is spinning, and my stomach is churning.
The first dig finds water 3 feet from the top soil. We need another spot to bury our horses. Not the place we always planned to bury them. More talk about holes. And how to get her in it. What he will have to do with her body. It is surreal.
By now, I've have accepted this. She is in pain, and I will not let her suffer. We discuss holes, bodies, burials. I head back to the barn to sit with her. My sleeves are wet from catching tears.
She is very quiet, medicated, but not exhibiting signs of discomfort anymore. It's because of the medication, I'm told by the vet. I grab my camp chair, open her door and sit in her doorway. She comes over, hangs her head down slowly, until it is on my chest, resting, sleeping, looking for comfort and rest. My heart is broken, but being filled by the love we share. Slowly, I am accepting this is what is best for my friend, and I am making peace with having to help her pass.
An hour goes by. She is still "quiet." I give call to a long time vet/friend who checks our horses once a year, to update her. She tells me, "if she is not exhibiting signs of pain, giver her time. Days if you have to. See what she "tells" you.
We are now on mare watch. Oliver's needs have vanished into the background. Bob, my husband, takes an occasional walk to the house to let the dogs out and make sure all is well. I continue to wait, watch, and walk Katy when she seems up to it. Is she perking up a bit? I'm not sure. I want her to. Maybe I am seeing what I want.
Hours go by. Bob is bringing me coffee, rubbing my back, taking me in for a hug between tears of grief and sighs of acceptance. My sister calls to check in off and on, and stops by to give me a hug, as well. She's been through the loss of a horse. My phone is going off with text messages of support. You only understand if you've been through it.
I have a vet appointment for Casey, so Bob takes over "Katy colic watch" for an hour while we head to the office. Casey if 14, and is no longer as spry as he was. I am told by the vet that he has a heart block, which means his heart literally stops at various times, and his age is definitely catching up with him. This is a serious health issue with a grave prognosis. He also has, probably, a stomach virus. I get meds for the virus, but am acutely aware that his days are now also numbered (as are everyone's, really) and take him home to let him sleep off the trauma of the vet visit. He does not enjoy the vet.
Wednesday turns into night, and Thursday morning, and by Thursday night, to our astonishment, Katy is perking up!! Our horror has turned into hope. We start to feed her little bits of very soaked grain, and the management begins. How much do we feed her of what and when? There are constant checks for manure. Do her eyes seem brighter to you? I have now become an expert at equine heart rate monitoring, and, thanks be to the Lord, hers is consistently normal. She is out of the woods. We hope.
Now we wonder, "do we fill the hole I've been glaring at outside my kitchen window?" We can dig it up again if need be. Should we give her more time to be sure she's worked out of whatever ailed her? We will have to fill the hole if it's not going to be used so it doesn't freeze as a large pile and gaping hole. I have never thought about this part of owning a farm, until it backed me into this corner. Reality can be very abrasive.
By Friday evening we decide, yes, fill the hole. She is back on an adjusted "regular" schedule. We are still, however, on high alert, watching every detail to stay on top of how she seems to be feeling.
The scare with Katy prompted us to gather the three dogs; 17 year old Ollie, 14 year old Casey and 7 year old Jacki Friday afternoon. We put their leashes and harnesses on, grab the camera, and take them for a walk to the barn. This is something they usually all enjoy, but is difficult for just one person to manage. The weather was mild, and the ice had melted. We head down the driveway, Bob with Casey and Jacki, and I with Oliver. The two old guys are moving slow, but, moving, nonetheless.
Once we hit the barn, there is an overflow of sniffing. Ollie and Casey are on a mission to smell every thing they can, tails wagging, intent on their jobs. Luckily, Oliver seems to remember when I snap the button on the extendable leash, its a message to follow my lead. Blind, deaf, no matter, he feels that snap and we are in sync. Jacki, who accompanies us regularly to the barn, is already in a stall, looking for leftover grain.
When we get inside the barn, I made sure Oliver has help navigating in any precarious spots, but, the moment comes when, voila, he perks up!! His head popps up, his tail goes straight in the air, and off he goes towards the paddock. When we get outside, I pick him up to carry him over to the horses. Immediately, his feet start peddling, demanding to be put down. He sniffs around, following me as best he can towards where the three horses are hanging out. When we get close, I pick him up so he can say hello to Tango, our alpha gelding and second love of my life. Oliver and Tango are buddies. Tango extends his nose out, sniffing softly, and Ollie gives him, then me, and excited quick doggie kiss. Heaven.
We hang out for a few minutes, take some pictures, then head back to the house. Ollie and Casey both need to be carried in a few spots, but all in all, our walk to the barn is blissful. Everyone is happy, and snuggles on the couch for a nap. Again, heaven.
That evening, Bob and I put our feet up and breathe a sigh of relief. We made it through, came out the other side of the less-than-perfect part of pet owning and running a farm. We seem to have dodged a very painful bullet. We toast each other with a beer, sit back and relax, happy to be rid of the grip of dread, seeing all our animals settled in, content and in no danger. All is well at DunRoamin Farm. Tonight.
The next morning, Marcus does not finish his breakfast. I make a note, give him an extra rub and scan him for longer than usual, silently praying, and get on with my day. It is unpredictable, emotional, often draining, but always rewarding to be living this lifestyle we have chosen for this stage of our lives. I am hoping that the next few days remain uneventful.
The day I blogged about following Oliver around, stressing about his health and aging process, was a stressful day. By the time the "feeding frenzy," as I call it, rolled around, I was maxed out.
The feeding frenzy occurs between 3:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. I feed the 3 dogs, who are getting the bulk of their medications (those that need them). There is a particular dance to this process. Pick up the three bowls. Fill them with the appropriate amount of homemade dog food (which we tweaked, so we now have 2 recipes, older guys, and younger girl), add the necessary medications and/or supplements. Meanwhile, the three dogs are at my feet, staring. Well, Ollie isn't staring, he's mostly blind. But, he's there, looking up and dog, shifting his weight in anticipation. Casey is whining. Loudly. The frequency increases the longer it takes me. I am much too slow for him. Jacki sits politely, waiting, tail wagging.
Pick up 2 prepared bowls for Ollie and Casey. Casey now realizes what is going on and starts to hop around on his back legs, which is very bad for him, so I am expedient in my delivery time. I have to hold his little dish just over his head, keeping his attention on it, so he will follow it. Meanwhile, I am lowering Oliver's dish down in front of his nose, as he follows the smell, placing it on his mat for him to enjoy. Casey is hopping in circles (NO!!!) until I put his down on his box, which he dives into like a fiend. Jacki waits patiently. I grab her bowl and place it in her stand, grab 2 treats for Coco, our 12 year old Maincoon cat, who has joined the party, looking for treats on the kitchen island.
Ok. Dogs are good. They will need to go out in the front yard after dinner for poop time.
I head to the barn, bring the horses in, stir and grab their feed from the tack room where I strategically also feed the barn cats that we cannot let outside yet, placing their dishes down just before I exit so they are not interested in sneaking out the door. I deliver said horse feed, and head back to the house to let the dogs out. Once the dogs have their daily constitution and a jaunt in the yard (as I am helping Ollie up and down the stairs, picking poop and tossing in the woods) I go BACK to the barn, pick the paddock, give the horses a once over, grab their bowls and set up breakfast. Everyone is acting like their normal selves and pets are settled in for the night.
Well, on this particularly stressful day of following Oliver, I am ready to get in the car and go somewhere, anywhere, for a much needed attitude adjustment. I rush out to meet a girlfriend to get my toes done at a local shop, but they are too busy, so I pass on that, and we go to dinner, enjoying some Chardonnay as a reward for surviving another exceptionally stressful day.
I am looking forward to tomorrow.
Unfortunately, fate felt otherwise. My day was not through.
That night, my mare, Katy, had a bad colic. We found her laying in the snow, caked in ice.
Katy's had numerous health issues, so at first, we weren't sure what was going on with her. Colic? Another bout of lyme or erlichea? Hormonal issue? She wasn't presenting typical colic signs, and has no history of colic. But a history of weird health issues, she has had. No temp, definitely uncomfortable, but not necessarily an emergency (I am not one to call the vet right away until I know it's something I cannot manage and have luckily managed 95% of their issues with my vets approvals and blessings). We give her medication and check her an hour later. She is more comfortable, so we wait til morning, assuming whatever she is battling will have subsided.
Wrong. She is worse in the morning. so I call my local vet right away. Something is wrong and she is not working out of it this time. I walk her over an hour, talking, begging, with an occasional shout at no one in particular: WHY is this happening?? My POOR "kids!!!"
The vet comes; it's colic and probably life threatening. After reaching, past his elbow into her rectum, she has an obvious problem. The day shrinks away and all I see is her, her pain, and my inability to help. My husband turns around and comes home from work (now you KNOW it's serious). We call a neighbor, who comes to dig a hole. We discuss where, how big, etc. the hole should be and what will happen when it is time for Katy to be placed in it. My head is spinning, and my stomach is churning.
The first dig finds water 3 feet from the top soil. We need another spot to bury our horses. Not the place we always planned to bury them. More talk about holes. And how to get her in it. What he will have to do with her body. It is surreal.
By now, I've have accepted this. She is in pain, and I will not let her suffer. We discuss holes, bodies, burials. I head back to the barn to sit with her. My sleeves are wet from catching tears.
She is very quiet, medicated, but not exhibiting signs of discomfort anymore. It's because of the medication, I'm told by the vet. I grab my camp chair, open her door and sit in her doorway. She comes over, hangs her head down slowly, until it is on my chest, resting, sleeping, looking for comfort and rest. My heart is broken, but being filled by the love we share. Slowly, I am accepting this is what is best for my friend, and I am making peace with having to help her pass.
An hour goes by. She is still "quiet." I give call to a long time vet/friend who checks our horses once a year, to update her. She tells me, "if she is not exhibiting signs of pain, giver her time. Days if you have to. See what she "tells" you.
We are now on mare watch. Oliver's needs have vanished into the background. Bob, my husband, takes an occasional walk to the house to let the dogs out and make sure all is well. I continue to wait, watch, and walk Katy when she seems up to it. Is she perking up a bit? I'm not sure. I want her to. Maybe I am seeing what I want.
Hours go by. Bob is bringing me coffee, rubbing my back, taking me in for a hug between tears of grief and sighs of acceptance. My sister calls to check in off and on, and stops by to give me a hug, as well. She's been through the loss of a horse. My phone is going off with text messages of support. You only understand if you've been through it.
I have a vet appointment for Casey, so Bob takes over "Katy colic watch" for an hour while we head to the office. Casey if 14, and is no longer as spry as he was. I am told by the vet that he has a heart block, which means his heart literally stops at various times, and his age is definitely catching up with him. This is a serious health issue with a grave prognosis. He also has, probably, a stomach virus. I get meds for the virus, but am acutely aware that his days are now also numbered (as are everyone's, really) and take him home to let him sleep off the trauma of the vet visit. He does not enjoy the vet.
Wednesday turns into night, and Thursday morning, and by Thursday night, to our astonishment, Katy is perking up!! Our horror has turned into hope. We start to feed her little bits of very soaked grain, and the management begins. How much do we feed her of what and when? There are constant checks for manure. Do her eyes seem brighter to you? I have now become an expert at equine heart rate monitoring, and, thanks be to the Lord, hers is consistently normal. She is out of the woods. We hope.
Now we wonder, "do we fill the hole I've been glaring at outside my kitchen window?" We can dig it up again if need be. Should we give her more time to be sure she's worked out of whatever ailed her? We will have to fill the hole if it's not going to be used so it doesn't freeze as a large pile and gaping hole. I have never thought about this part of owning a farm, until it backed me into this corner. Reality can be very abrasive.
By Friday evening we decide, yes, fill the hole. She is back on an adjusted "regular" schedule. We are still, however, on high alert, watching every detail to stay on top of how she seems to be feeling.
The scare with Katy prompted us to gather the three dogs; 17 year old Ollie, 14 year old Casey and 7 year old Jacki Friday afternoon. We put their leashes and harnesses on, grab the camera, and take them for a walk to the barn. This is something they usually all enjoy, but is difficult for just one person to manage. The weather was mild, and the ice had melted. We head down the driveway, Bob with Casey and Jacki, and I with Oliver. The two old guys are moving slow, but, moving, nonetheless.
Once we hit the barn, there is an overflow of sniffing. Ollie and Casey are on a mission to smell every thing they can, tails wagging, intent on their jobs. Luckily, Oliver seems to remember when I snap the button on the extendable leash, its a message to follow my lead. Blind, deaf, no matter, he feels that snap and we are in sync. Jacki, who accompanies us regularly to the barn, is already in a stall, looking for leftover grain.
When we get inside the barn, I made sure Oliver has help navigating in any precarious spots, but, the moment comes when, voila, he perks up!! His head popps up, his tail goes straight in the air, and off he goes towards the paddock. When we get outside, I pick him up to carry him over to the horses. Immediately, his feet start peddling, demanding to be put down. He sniffs around, following me as best he can towards where the three horses are hanging out. When we get close, I pick him up so he can say hello to Tango, our alpha gelding and second love of my life. Oliver and Tango are buddies. Tango extends his nose out, sniffing softly, and Ollie gives him, then me, and excited quick doggie kiss. Heaven.
We hang out for a few minutes, take some pictures, then head back to the house. Ollie and Casey both need to be carried in a few spots, but all in all, our walk to the barn is blissful. Everyone is happy, and snuggles on the couch for a nap. Again, heaven.
That evening, Bob and I put our feet up and breathe a sigh of relief. We made it through, came out the other side of the less-than-perfect part of pet owning and running a farm. We seem to have dodged a very painful bullet. We toast each other with a beer, sit back and relax, happy to be rid of the grip of dread, seeing all our animals settled in, content and in no danger. All is well at DunRoamin Farm. Tonight.
The next morning, Marcus does not finish his breakfast. I make a note, give him an extra rub and scan him for longer than usual, silently praying, and get on with my day. It is unpredictable, emotional, often draining, but always rewarding to be living this lifestyle we have chosen for this stage of our lives. I am hoping that the next few days remain uneventful.
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