Last night at 9:00 it was my turn to check the pregnant mares. It was cold and rainy outside so no one else was at the barn when I got there which was nice. I didn’t even turn on the lights above the stalls because I didn’t want to wake up non-pregnant horses. I just crept past all of them in the dark and listened to their sleepy horse sounds and inhaled their lovely horsey smell. I know - not everyone thinks that horses smell lovely, but I just think it’s the best. It’s not nearly as nice as sleeping baby smell, but it is much better than sleeping teenager smell.
The mares are penned at the end of the arena in a nice area that has a door to outside, lots of pacing room and secure stalls for birthing with heat lamps over them. I checked them first for obvious, physical signs of labor (they do NOT like cold hands on their teats - go figure) and then just sat back and watched them for a while.
Anyone who knew me while I was pregnant with Faith will understand the thoughts going through my brain. Let’s just say that I looked a lot like an overdue mare there towards the end and probably weighed nearly as much. I am grateful that Faith did not have four legs with which to kick me, but I wish that I had been able to pin my ears back to warn people who approached me that I wasn’t feeling friendly.
After I’d been there a while, the mares decided I was okay and came over for scratches. It is very satisfying to make an enormously pregnant creature feel even a little bit better so I scratched and scratched some more and they closed their eyes kind of drowsily and sighed and relaxed as best they could with their crazily undulating bellies.
I was there much longer than necessary for a “check” because I was really, really hoping to see any sign of imminent birth. Turns out that if you stand there long enough and hope hard enough . . . nothing happens except that your imagination goes into overdrive and you start interpreting every little twitch as labor. Finally I
The mares are penned at the end of the arena in a nice area that has a door to outside, lots of pacing room and secure stalls for birthing with heat lamps over them. I checked them first for obvious, physical signs of labor (they do NOT like cold hands on their teats - go figure) and then just sat back and watched them for a while.
Anyone who knew me while I was pregnant with Faith will understand the thoughts going through my brain. Let’s just say that I looked a lot like an overdue mare there towards the end and probably weighed nearly as much. I am grateful that Faith did not have four legs with which to kick me, but I wish that I had been able to pin my ears back to warn people who approached me that I wasn’t feeling friendly.
After I’d been there a while, the mares decided I was okay and came over for scratches. It is very satisfying to make an enormously pregnant creature feel even a little bit better so I scratched and scratched some more and they closed their eyes kind of drowsily and sighed and relaxed as best they could with their crazily undulating bellies.
I was there much longer than necessary for a “check” because I was really, really hoping to see any sign of imminent birth. Turns out that if you stand there long enough and hope hard enough . . . nothing happens except that your imagination goes into overdrive and you start interpreting every little twitch as labor. Finally I
gave
up and drove home. Still, the babies will be here soon and I’ll post pictures. I thought about posting my own pregnancy pictures to illustrate this story but I’m too proud. I only allowed them to be taken when I was pregnant with Reagan. In addition to be shockingly big, I had an
awful
haircut. Rich thought that I might look good with Joan Lunden’s hair. I did not. No matter how much I wanted to look like a blonde, slim model-looking anchorwoman, a simple haircut wasn’t going to do it. I just looked like I had a tiny head with a mushroom sitting on top that was completely out of proportion to the rest of me. So I’ll just let you look at Joan today and will post pictures of precious foals when they come.
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