My sunshine

On Thursday, I got the call ever horse owner dreads. 

I didn't see it coming. 

I'd had the best morning with Olive. We'd talked to an animal communicator - my Mother's Day present from Ryan - and Olive had been chatty and hilarious, telling us, among other things, she was the Princess, very beautiful and a good weight not fat. In regards to our relationship, she said we were "two peas in a pod" and claimed that when we met, it was love at first sight. I asked for clarification and Olive said it was love at first sight for me, but not for her. Then the communicator told me that Olive was laughing and singing "You Are My Sunshine" to me.

I don't know that I believe any of that, but I loved it anyway.

After our session, we saddled up and went for a short trail ride because Olive had said she liked doing that.

The call came a few hours later, while I was at work. I looked at my phone screen, saw Reece's name and sighed. He's one of the people who brings Olive in from the field in the afternoon. He's also the one who sometimes has trouble catching her.

"Hey, Reece. What's up?" I asked, completely, blissfully unaware.

"Olive is colicking," he said.

Those three words brought my entire world to a screeching halt. I found my boss and repeated them to her. Even though I was closing manager that night, she said, "Just go." I did.

Traffic was terrible, and it took forever to get there. Mid-trip, I called Reece for an update. He said the Banamine hadn't helped, and I should call a vet. I did.

Olive was in a really bad way when I finally got to the barn. It was very hot, and she was covered in sweat. She had pointy wrinkles above her eyes, a long tense mouth and flaring nostrils. She was so squatty behind, she could barely walk, and her flanks were grotesquely distended. She was not happy to see me. All she wanted to do was go back to her stall. 

I took the lead rope from Reece and started walking. 

I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her.

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably an hour, a team of vets and technicians from Littleton Equine Medical Center arrived. They inserted a nasogastric tube, which immediately produced a lot of reflux. A rectal exam revealed a lot of gas. So much, the vet could barely fit his arm inside her.

We talked options and money. I said she was not a surgical candidate - it is just so expensive - but I absolutely wanted to give her the best possible chance. That meant taking her to the hospital straightaway. Reece hooked up Sarah's trailer, we loaded her up and headed out.

Without traffic, it's a thirty five drive from my barn to Littleton. At rush hour, it took significantly longer. I didn't expect Olive to be standing up when we arrived, but she was. She came out a lot easier than she'd gone in and was taken straight to the ICU.

They repeated the tube - more reflux - and rectal exam and did an ultrasound. At this point Olive's entire belly was extremely distended and her pulse rate - a key indicator of pain - was in the mid sixties range. We talked options, and again, I said I could not afford surgery.

"We're not there yet anyway," I was told. "We'll see how she does with time and medication."

We watched and waited. It didn't get better. Even with all the meds, Olive was clearly in distress. Her pulse rate climbed to eighty eight. I was sure I was going to lose her.

I realized I was not ready to lose her.

I started thinking about all the model horses on the shelf in my basement and how much they were worth. I did some mental math and realized that I could, in fact, afford surgery. I talked to Seth, and he agreed we had to give her a chance.

Then I stood with Olive as they shaved her belly and prepared the operating room. 

I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her.