Friday Night Trip to Cornell

It was the phone call I'm always expecting. Marty & I had settled in with a video and some snacks when the phone rang at 8:15...we don't really talk to people on the phone that much, so when it rings, I'm always certain it's Pat, the barn owner, with a crisis. So far, it never has been.

Tonight it was.

"How would you feel about a trip to Cornell tonight?" Pat asks. My heart drops, then starts racing.

"What happened?"

"Gem has lacerated her fetlock...pretty good...might be into the joint...Ed (vet) doesn't want to take a chance; wants her to go to Cornell..."

Cornell University http://www.vet.cornell.edu/hospital/equine.htm is the ace in the hole we never want to use, but are so, so grateful to have sitting there. It's the shit, equine-veterinary-wise, the best place to go, and it's right up the road. But, damn, if you've got to go there, it's serious, and it's going to cost. So if Pat's considering going, it's serious.

"How did it happen?"

"Don't know... she came to the gate to come in for dinner this way. Don't know how long it's been..." tension, exasperation in Pat's voice.

"Okay, let's go..."

Pat's got neighbors with a big trailer coming to haul Gem; I'm the backup sit-up-all-night and bring Pat home person, the second handler, the other regular human Gem knows. Pat's not sure Gem will load-- she's only three and has never been on a trailer before, never been off the farm; she's just a baby http://www.flickr.com/photos/foxwinfarm/sets/72157604881329145/

So I drive to the farm (30 miles) to find that the neighbors and Pat have just gotten Gem loaded, and it's just about pitch dark out now, and it's time to motor. I'm to follow the trailer. No problem, I can see that thing in the dark. I haven't, however, had a chance to see Gem, so I don't know how bad the laceration is, or what state she's in. They gave her a mild tranq to get her loaded, and that seems to have gone well. But now we have a rookie riding in the trailer, one who's doped and has an injured leg...let's hope she can stay upright and not hurt herself worse on the ride.

Since we're leaving for Cornell from 30 miles east of where I live, we're taking a route I don't know. It's pitch dark; it's back roads; it's a long way from home, and I'm worried about Gem. I'm also running low on fuel in my car. I'd estimated I'd have enough based on the route to Cornell that I know, but now I have no idea where we are, where we are going, and how long it will take.

They stop the trailer at one point to check on Gem...she seems to be doing fine. Since we're near a gas station, I say I'll get gas, they should go ahead, and I'll catch up. So I get gas, but damned if I can catch up...they have disappeared. I'm trying to fiddle with my GPS to verify where the hell I am, trying to drive catch-up quickly over two-lane back country hilly, curvy roads in the dark, and I hit some damn button on the GPS that renders it non-functional. I'm beginning to panic-- what if they've made a turn they didn't tell me about? Where the hell am I? How am I ever going to find them?

After about 10 minutes of this panic, which feels like three hours, I see the trailer up ahead; I have finally caught up, and have somehow managed not to run off the road or into a deer or a dog or anything.

Follow...follow...follow...interminably long trip up, up, up the hills of Ithaca, through the 78 stop lights of downtown, up, up, up, and finally we are at the Equine Hospital.

And we don't know if we can get the poor kid off the trailer. She's never been on one; it's a step-up/step-down (not a ramp) loader, and she's got to step down onto an injured leg. And she's still slightly drugged. She could face-plant in the parking lot and do a bunch of damage.

But, damn, if she isn't her daddy's girl-- she steps off, wobbles a little on the bad leg, then catches herself and follows Pat right into the hospital-- a big, bright, scary, strange place she's never seen before-- just like she's been there every day of her life. I love this little horse a little more for this.

The students (for this is a teaching hospital) gather 'round, a bit sleepy, a bit without direction. We find out that the cheif surgeon is in emergency surgery with a colic case, so the students have to do our intake themselves, without her guidance. They do it like most things college kids do...with that mix of confidence and group-speak that belies their insecurities. Eventually, they get Gem's paperwork together, get a look at the joint, and decide that the surgeon really is the one who needs to see it. She's going to be a couple more hours at least...so we need to get Gemmy-Gem a stall and set up for an overnight stay.

Overnight stay just made the cost of this injury $1,500 at least. If all they do is flush the wound and give her some anti-biotics, it's closing in on two grand. And this for a horse whose sale price is $2000-$3000 tops. Uh-oh. If it requires sutures, $2,000 easy. IF it requires sedation to do the sutures, $3-$4,000. Uh-oh.

And we don't know the extent of the injury-- just flesh? Enough of a challenge in the lower limb of a horse. Poor circulation makes healing lower leg injuries, even the most minor ones, very challenging. Add to that the environmental issues of a stable, and keeping even a flesh wound clean enough to heal is a problem.

If it damaged the capsule of the joint itself? Infection almost certain. Fusing of the joint. Crippling debilitation possible.

Stress of the injury always bears a relationship to laminitis, which is also crippling, can be life-threatening.

(For a quick overview of leg lacerations and their challenges-- warning, not for the faint of heart...or stomach: http://www.acvs.org/AnimalOwners/HealthConditions/LargeAnimalEquineTopics/GeneralWoundManagement/ )

So the whole frigging thing is a slippery slope...or could be...and even with the greatest care in the world at Cornell, even if cost were no object, recovery & recuperation are not guaranteed. So this is one shitty thing to be facing, even after we've made the journey to the Mecca of equine vet care.

But we leave Gem in the students' hands and decide to make our way home.

In the dark, nervous, worried, and coming out of a street I've never driven on, I swing too wide on a one-way street, and over-shoot my lane right into a curb that separates the driving lane from the railroad tracks. Bend the rim, slash the tire.

Great. It's 11:30 at night, 50 miles from home, we've got an injured horse, and now a flat tire.

I do believe I said "Fuck!"

So, we pull into the Greyhound station, dutifully change the tire to the ridiculous donut-- goddamn american cars and their cheap-ass shit mechanical systems. Go the hell out of business, you cheap assholes, you deserve it.

Change the tire; call Marty to meet us 20 miles out from home to shepherd us back in, just in case the cheap-ass shit donut doesn't get us there. Call Pat's housemate to come get her at the same place, since I'm not driving any further than I have to on this donut.

Drive the 50 miles home at no greater speed than 45 mph. Get Pat to her ride; drive home; get the car to the tire place. Get home. Deep breath.

And now cry. For all of it...for the scary, for the worry, for the stress, for the fucking flat tire that we didn't need, for the uncertainty of Gem's injury and prognosis, for the uncertainty of being able to afford the treatment. For all of it.

Go to bed at 1:45 a.m.

Can't sleep.

Blog at 2:00 a.m.

Feel a little clearer, if not better, at 2:38

More when we know more...