could clearly be seen beneath the skin, and the way in which they folded up so neatly. The blood around the gaping holes in the damaged wing had congealed and turned dark. Midge was as gentle as she could be.
Next, she brought the edge of the polythene sheet right up close to the horse and tucked it under both front legs and back. The legs were so slim that she was able to grasp the front pair with one hand and the back pair with the other, as she knelt on the polythene sheet. Then she simply pulled the little animal from under the raking machine and towards her, edged backwards a bit, pulled some more, and so gradually slid it on to the polythene. She hauled the unconscious creature in this fashion to the centre of the mattress, where the straw underneath was thickest. A damp smear of blood and muck had been left as a trail from the edge of the blue sheet to the middle. But at least the poor thing was on a dry and comfortable bed.
Twenty past five. She could allow herself another half-hour or so to try and clean the patient up. But what was she to use? The sacking was going to be a blanket. The scrubbing brush? Too harsh, she thought. She was wearing a T-shirt, but she could hardly turn up at the farmhouse without a top on. Knickers and socks were the only other possibilities. She decided on her socks. But two small white summer socks would hardly do to wash a horse down with – even a miniature horse. Finally, she reasoned that it was only the wounds that were really important. If she could wash the dirt away from them, then the rest could wait.
She ran round to the outside tap, carrying the battered pail, and half filled it with water. Back in the barn she pulled off her shoes and socks, put her shoes straight back on again, and carried the bucket unsteadily to the centre of the mattress where the horse lay. Putting her hand into one of the socks, she dipped it in the cold water. Then, using her free hand to gently extend the damaged wing, she carefully began to bathe the wounds. The sock quickly became stained pink, but Midge kept rinsing it in the bucket and applying clean water to the torn skin until all the muck and grit had gone. The wounds opened up again and fresh blood began to appear, but Midge felt that this was preferable to the filth that had been there before. When it was as clean as she could make it, she used her other sock to dab the area dry and then gently let the wing fold into a natural and, she hoped, comfortable position. When that was done, she ran round to the tap once more, tipped the dirty water away and refilled the bucket. She rinsed the dirty socks under the running tap. There was just time to wash the horse’s face, and then she would have to go.
The animal was alive, she knew that. Gently sponging around the closed eyes and blood-spattered mouth, Midge was aware of the fast shallow breathing of the unconscious creature. It was still alive, and she would keep it alive. She would not let it go. She would pour strength and healing from her fingertips, she would wash away the pain. Unblinking, in a trance almost, she dipped her hand into the cool water again and again. Every movement she made was filled with care.
Finally there was no more she could do. It was six o’clock. She had to go. The heavy old potato sack made a perfect horse-blanket, as she had known it would, and she draped it across the fragile and vulnerable creature as a shield against the long night ahead. As a last thought, she drank some of the orange squash from her plastic Coke bottle, tipped the rest away, and re-filled it with clean water from the tap. Kneeling by the horse, she gently tipped a little water from the bottle into its mouth. There was no swallowing reaction, as she had hoped there might be. A slight movement of the tongue, a twitch of the small delicate nostrils perhaps, but nothing more. Midge stayed a few moments longer, stroking the backs of her fingers against the horse’s cheek, then said, ‘I’ll
Next, she brought the edge of the polythene sheet right up close to the horse and tucked it under both front legs and back. The legs were so slim that she was able to grasp the front pair with one hand and the back pair with the other, as she knelt on the polythene sheet. Then she simply pulled the little animal from under the raking machine and towards her, edged backwards a bit, pulled some more, and so gradually slid it on to the polythene. She hauled the unconscious creature in this fashion to the centre of the mattress, where the straw underneath was thickest. A damp smear of blood and muck had been left as a trail from the edge of the blue sheet to the middle. But at least the poor thing was on a dry and comfortable bed.
Twenty past five. She could allow herself another half-hour or so to try and clean the patient up. But what was she to use? The sacking was going to be a blanket. The scrubbing brush? Too harsh, she thought. She was wearing a T-shirt, but she could hardly turn up at the farmhouse without a top on. Knickers and socks were the only other possibilities. She decided on her socks. But two small white summer socks would hardly do to wash a horse down with – even a miniature horse. Finally, she reasoned that it was only the wounds that were really important. If she could wash the dirt away from them, then the rest could wait.
She ran round to the outside tap, carrying the battered pail, and half filled it with water. Back in the barn she pulled off her shoes and socks, put her shoes straight back on again, and carried the bucket unsteadily to the centre of the mattress where the horse lay. Putting her hand into one of the socks, she dipped it in the cold water. Then, using her free hand to gently extend the damaged wing, she carefully began to bathe the wounds. The sock quickly became stained pink, but Midge kept rinsing it in the bucket and applying clean water to the torn skin until all the muck and grit had gone. The wounds opened up again and fresh blood began to appear, but Midge felt that this was preferable to the filth that had been there before. When it was as clean as she could make it, she used her other sock to dab the area dry and then gently let the wing fold into a natural and, she hoped, comfortable position. When that was done, she ran round to the tap once more, tipped the dirty water away and refilled the bucket. She rinsed the dirty socks under the running tap. There was just time to wash the horse’s face, and then she would have to go.
The animal was alive, she knew that. Gently sponging around the closed eyes and blood-spattered mouth, Midge was aware of the fast shallow breathing of the unconscious creature. It was still alive, and she would keep it alive. She would not let it go. She would pour strength and healing from her fingertips, she would wash away the pain. Unblinking, in a trance almost, she dipped her hand into the cool water again and again. Every movement she made was filled with care.
Finally there was no more she could do. It was six o’clock. She had to go. The heavy old potato sack made a perfect horse-blanket, as she had known it would, and she draped it across the fragile and vulnerable creature as a shield against the long night ahead. As a last thought, she drank some of the orange squash from her plastic Coke bottle, tipped the rest away, and re-filled it with clean water from the tap. Kneeling by the horse, she gently tipped a little water from the bottle into its mouth. There was no swallowing reaction, as she had hoped there might be. A slight movement of the tongue, a twitch of the small delicate nostrils perhaps, but nothing more. Midge stayed a few moments longer, stroking the backs of her fingers against the horse’s cheek, then said, ‘I’ll
Similar Books
