by Elizabeth Mcgill

Created on: July 26, 2009

"So, how long have you been dealing with horses?" asked Dr. Foster, as he stuck his gloved finger back into the deep openings in my mangled right arm. "About five years," I replied, trying not to watch the bits of grass, rocks and meat he examined for a few seconds on the tip of his index finger before slinging them into a garbage can beside his chair. The splattering sounds as each mass hit the can turned my stomach. No other sound came from the doctor, so I figured he was contemplating the truth of my statement. I glanced at his furrowed brow, wanting to tell him that I spent more hours in the saddle than he did in this darn hospital. Instead of trying to explain, I gave my husband a baleful stare.

The room was cold, and my husband's hands were cold, his face was an awful white color. The doctor's deep voice cut through the silence. "Well, I can not do anymore to this arm until the swelling goes down, he said, as crisply as his gloves sounded as he snapped them off his hands. As the doctor left the room, I grumbled to me husband that I was hungry and sure that they would have me in a room before he got back with anything for me to eat. His concern was irritating me. I was eager for him to just go somewhere, anywhere, but here, holding my hand.

Later, as the night staff nurses finished their intrusive introductions, I sighed with frustration at being laid up with a broken arm and stitches in my scalp. I missed my horses. Besides, I was sure my horses would be going on a hunger strike soon, because I was not there to feed them.

When my husband and I married, we aimed to have horses from day one. When our final count was thirteen head, it became apparent to us that if we wanted to enjoy having a pasture full of horses, we needed to start a trail riding business.

I found that working a horse everyday was pure therapy. One horse in particular, Change, was prone to colic on her feed. She had a terrible tendency of picking up bits of feed along with bits of sand and trash in the mixture, off the ground. We even tried a feedbag to no avail; she chewed a hole in it.

The day was hot and humid, and I had just arrived back home with my young daughters, and put the littlest one to bed for her nap. I glanced out the window in time to see clouds of dust drifting up from the pasture. I knew without a second guess, it was Change. Rushing out to the barn, I grabbed a lead rope, and raced up to a few feet of her. The halter was almost off her nose, one ear entirely

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