Little JackJack is my 13.2hh Arabian-Quarter rescue from June of 2006. I did not need another horse when I bought him. Nor could I afford him. I certainly did not need a pony too small for me to ride, much less one too scared of humans to be ridden at all, except under very specific conditions. But he was going to auction—the equine euphemism for slaughter—and he had these super-long white eyelashes….
Jack in spring of 2006. Hard to believe how much greyer he was then. He'll be all white before we know it.
It doesn’t matter why I bought him. It just happened. He’s one of my own, now. And yesterday, I got the call you don’t want to get from your boarding stable—the call that doesn’t begin with “Everybody’s fine…” Mine started with “It’s Jack.”
The call came at three in the afternoon. Jack had been found standing alone in the lower pasture by Dan, head down, motionless. He did not respond to Dan’s call, so he went down to him. And that’s when he saw the deep, arc-shaped gash full of hair and dried blood on Jack’s forehead.
It took me two hours to get my shit together and drive 17 miles south. They assured me he was no longer bleeding, and he seemed alert once they enticed him up to the barn area. They saw no neurological signs, but I was filled with the worst of forebodings, as usual. Cracked skull—untreatable. Brain damage—untreatable. I tore the house apart for every veterinary supply I possessed and drove to the barn shaking so hard I put Galaxy on cruise and tried to regulate my breathing. I was so far from thinking clearly I made a call to my sister to have a cool brain present. It’s one thing when you’re treating someone else’s kid, but when it’s your own—I knew I’d be worthless for making decisions.
When I walked into the arena Dan was holding Jack's lead rope, standing on my mounting block looking down at Jack’s gaping wound. They had been able to squirt one syringe-full of warm water onto it to try and loosen the dried blood and hair, but that was the last time any of us were able to touch that area again. We all tried for at least an hour to get more water or iodine to the area, or to move the forelock, but it was not happening. Tam and Dan drifted back to the house as it became clear we were powerless, and Dan brought in Julian to keep Jack calmer. Julian was revved beyond control, cantering and kicking in wide circles around us, but I don't think either horse noticed the other. Still, it calmed me having them both in there.
It was Sarah who finally called me back to reality and told me to make a decision. That was exactly why I needed her there. I would have stood there staring at poor Jack all night long, trying to heal him with pity. My mind was stuck on “You must let me help you. You must let me help you. You must let me help you.” It was Sarah that broke through and made me hear that I could NOT help him. Not without a tranquilizer or sedative, neither of which we had.
After fucking around for far too long, I finally called a vet emergency line. I sent Sarah home, and she was too kind to me, leaving homemade soup, bread and a cookie in my car for me to discover later. As I waited for the on-call vet to call back, Tam remembered the new vet in Sun Prairie—a vet my co-worker had just signed on to MWI. Again, a perfect example of my inability to think in a linear fashion under duress. Tam reached her, and she was soon on her way.
My gratitude at securing a vet who had no client relationship with me who was willing to come at a moment’s notice was enormous, and I thanked her with every other breath during the whole time she was there—about two hours? She tranquilized Jack and set to work. She had to tranq him at least one more time, most notably when she fired up the clippers. Jack went from head dropped and barely standing to fully alert when he heard that familiar buzz. I was mortified that I still hadn’t gotten him over that fear, and probably apologized twenty times as we struggled to get him shaved. It took more drugs, a heavy hand on the halter, and a rope twitch to get it done. His fear and panic pulsated through my body, and I thought I might throw up. I had worked for two years to get this frightened pony to trust me, and at his most terrifying moment, I was the one leaning on a lip twitch to hold him down. I didn’t throw up and I didn’t let go, but I was bawling inside. I couldn’t bear his pain, his fear. It took us only about ten minutes, but it was the longest ten minutes I can remember recently. I could only hope that his memory of it would be much dimmer than my own.
Jack, as it turns out, was pretty lucky in terms of his actual injury. The doctor believed that the kick just grazed his forehead, and had not made full impact. Someone’s hind foot had peeled back a sizable chunk of flesh and muscle, but it had not reached his skull, and she said there was “no notable dent in the bone.” (Hearing that said out loud is not any more comforting than reading it, for what it’s worth.) As much as I wanted to get a picture of his injury (once a vet tech, always a vet tech) I could not make myself set a flash off in his face, so that memory will have to be mine and the doctor’s.
It was gruesome. The force of the kick had split the skin and forced the flap up under the top of his forehead, along with most of his forelock. It took her at least an hour to clean and debride the wound, finally working the skin flap into position where she could suture it. Had we waited until morning for a vet, that skin would not have been viable, and he would have had a deep open wound roughly 3 inches in diameter that would have had to heal on its own.
Suturing was the other long spell of the evening—though much easier on poor Jack. Prior to beginning this phase, the doctor prepared to inject small amounts of Lidocaine into the skin to block the area. Lidocaine stings, by the way, even if you are swaying from sedation. The doc and I were on opposite sides of Jack’s head, both trying to keep him immobile as her needle hovered over his eyes and forehead. And that’s when we were reminded why God invented luer lock syringes.
Luer lock syringes are the ones where the needle actually screws onto the syringe, as opposed to luer slip syringes, where the needle just slips onto the syringe. 90% of the time, it is much less hassle to use luer slip syringes. And then there’s the other 10% of the time. The primary instance is euthanasia. That particular liquid is extremely viscous, and the LAST thing you want when you are trying to drop an 1100# animal is to get part way and have the force of compressing the syringe shoot the needle right off the end of the syringe, also shooting the rest of your solution everywhere. Anyone who has witnessed an accidentally-interrupted horse euthanasia will never forget it.
But this was no euthanasia—I just wanted to get all graphic and emotionally manipulative on you for a second. This was Lidocaine. And before we knew it, the needle blew off and every cc of Lidocaine sprayed across the right side of my face. Quite frankly, it was hilarious. I can’t speak for the doctor (who was extremely apologetic) but I was so punchy by this time that I couldn’t think of anything funnier. We were still in a tough-hold position where I had no free hand to wipe it off, so I just spit what I could off my lips and we continued on making Botox jokes.
After the mess she met when she greeted Jack for the first time, the doctor did a great job on the sutures. As anyone who has seen suturing can tell you, there’s no shortage of blood by the end. In this case, that was good news, as no blood would have meant dead skin, which was the last thing we wanted. Anyway, by the time we could let up and come up for air, poor Jack looked exactly like what you would imagine a gray/white horse would look like after getting kicked in the head. His entire face was covered in bright red blood. No pictures of that, either. Sorry. As I wiped my face and glasses, the doc wiped down Jack’s face as much as he would allow, leaving him only slightly tinged in pink. She said the pink would go well with Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I agreed. Needless to say, we were both punchy by this time.
I was exhausted with relief as she worked up her bill and I helped Jack come back around. I was still convinced he’d never trust me again, but managed to save those tears for the car ride home.
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Saturday morning. Looks okay from this angle--though you can clearly see the belly that has him up to 875 lbs!
Saturday morning I pulled up expecting Jack to see me and turn tail for the hills. I had to catch him to give him some paste for pain and a syringe full of dissolved pills for the antibiotic—twice a day for the next ten days, actually. My plan was to first lead Julian up to the round pen, then see if I could get anywhere near Jack.
