So we recently had a colic scare. Or, really, *I* had a colic scare and Ollie had five seconds of discomfort. Let’s be honest.
So I had a super light ride. Just walked and trotted and worked on transitions. Went home, took a nap and was about to get ready for my schmancy anniversary dinner with Bora. You know, the kind that requires shaving and a dress. And then I get a call from Jeff, part two of the fabulous duo who owns my barn.
“Did you get my texts? Ollie’s colicking. Vet will be here in 40 minutes.”
I of course immediately went into panic mode and silently screamed. NO NO NO. Ollie is not a colicky kind of guy. He’s a sturdy fella. So when he is lying down in his stall and doesn’t get up for dinner…. something is wrong. He’s usually the one who, upon hearing the chuck wagon’s engine fire up, starts hitting the bars of his stall and putting on an act like this.
So I frantically told Bora dinner was sadly off, and he sweetly understood. And he proceeded to drive me to the barn while I freaked out. When we got there, the vet had just arrived as well. The Ollsters was already trying to eat grass and was all like, “Yo, humans, what’s the big deal? I was hurting like 20 minutes ago for .5 seconds, but I’m totally cool, dude. Where’s my dinner?”
But of course, we know better than Ollie does. Most of the time, anyway.
Gut sounds were good, and he didn’t appear really dehydrated. So he was drugged and get a rectal exam to ensure that wasn’t impaction (god bless you vets. Bless you.)
Being a drafty boy, Olls is a giant lightweight. You pretty much just have to show him the needle of sedative and he’s like, “I’M OUT.”
Drooling out his drugs.
Everything turned out to be fine up in there. Got some banamine, walked him and put him in the round pen rather than get night turnout like the other ponies. He was allowed to get a flake of hay about 45 minutes later.
So we waited for him to come to after his drug trip (“OMG, I LOOOOVE YOU GUYS. YOU’RE MY BEST FRIENDS. Is that a donkey riding an Amish man?”) And then walked him a bit. He IMMEDIATELY started trying to pull me over to grass. Like nothing had ever happened. Of course he did.
“Mom. I am so completely offended that you made me skip dinner so some sick, twisted lady could get her jollies shoving her arm up my butt. What kind of a service are you running here? Clearly I am calling my union rep first thing tomorrow.”
“Ollie, you were colicking. This is kind of serious.”
“SHUT UP AND FEED ME, WOMAN. I AM DYING.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Hence serious.”
“No, I mean it. I’m wasting away by the second.”
So in he went to the round pen, got his one flake of hay and devoured it in two seconds, looking at me expectantly and all butthurt as if I had just smacked his nose for biting me and called his mom a whore. And inside we went to Felicia and Jeff’s house to eat our takeout pizza that Bora got while I was walking Ollie.
It wasn’t the anniversary dinner I’d planned on. There were no dresses and suits (and no hair for me to screw up in fixing). No fancy appetizers or cocktails or rotating city views. But I had my buddy out there safe and sound. I don’t know what I’d do without him. And we had good company and conversation. And support.
That night was a microcosm of what it’s like having and training horses. Things don’t always work out how you planned. Hardly ever, really. You can make grand plans with great intentions only for them to go all to hell for the most unexpected reasons, and there’s nothing you can do about it but come up with Plan B and march on.
But despite things not going as planned, what you end up with is often just as sweet.