The Mighty Finn

Even in Wintertime, the trees held on to a sort of green. They defied the lonely season, and were a constant reminder that it held no firmer grip on the world than the other seasons. Perhaps it was the bluegrass pastures. Or perhaps it was the not-too-dense winter coats on the deer who lived in the woods, but it was clear that Winter's grip over us was temporary. This was January in Kentucky- cold and wet. I reached up to pull the fleece hood of my gray sweatshirt further forward- as if a few more inches of cotton would make a difference.

    I glanced at the time absently as I stepped inside the doorway. It was unecessary since the mares inside the small barn announced it to be feeding time. They were an untrustworthy group- prone to declaring feeding time even when it wasn't. I shivered briefly, shaking off the cold from outside. As the warmth of the barn began to surround me, I inhaled the scent of it. It was heady- the smell of mares- their heavy bodies waiting to foal, their musky respiration as they exhaled. There were other smells, too. The freshness of the hay stack which was home to a small family of mice; the damp and musty smell of the straw which the mares waited upon to give birth.

    I pulled my hood back and let it fall to my shoulders. I stomped my feet on the concrete floor and the harshness of the sound seemed out of place. The other noises here were soft, natural, and muted-hooves shuffling across yellow straw, velvety noses rustling for stray stems of hay. I stepped softly then. Seven steps forward and then I turned right to walk down the aisleway between the stalls. As I walked the forty or so steps I mentally cataloged the horses there.

    Tootsie and Ella were bay mares who would foal in another month or so. Nearly the same age, Ella seemed a bit more world-weary and worn. Her bottom lip often hung down loosely. It should have made her seem simple, but instead, it caused her to appear sad. Delilah, the yellow mare on the left stomped her feet and sneered as I passed by. She was moody and childish. I found myself dreading her foaling in April. She was ill-prepared for motherhood and I feared that either she or I would not survive her adjustment period to this next stage of her life unscathed.

    I passed Cooper's stall. He was the only one who was not a mare. His purpose here was for another day. Continuing down the line, I passed ZigZag's box stall and paused just a moment. She was likely to foal tonight. I had watched her for days- and spent the past few nights on standby in case she decided to give up her hostage. I had brushed and braided her tail earlier and then wrapped it into a tidy bundle beneath a polo bandage so that it would be out of our way during her delivery. I noted that she had developed a heavier discharge of wax.  It was whitish-yellow in color and sticky. It clung to her teats which protruded from her now engorged udder. The life-giving colostrum was a welcome sight to any foaling attendant- it signaled that her foal would likely receive large amount of energy and immunity from it's first suckles.

    ZigZag looked back at me with deep brown eyes. She was the only horse in the barn who was not clamoring for her dinner. Yes, it would not be long now.

To Be Continued...