There's Nothing Humorous About A Broken Humerus!

  
     Debbie Blascke called that morning to tell me her vet had found Sirena, the Haflinger mare, infested with lice.   She advised that I examine Dolly.
     Fortunately, my little red filly allowed me to stroke her chest then bend down below her head for a closer look, though with her usual caution.
     'Hmm--those little yellow flecks on Dolly's chest I'd thought were particles of shaving dust from her bedding didn't brush off.  I took a photo and sent it as an attachment to an e-mail to Jay Merriam, my equine vet of over twenty years:
     "Lice?" I queried
     "Lice!" read the return e-mail.  "Ring me first thing tomorrow."
I caught up with Jay early the next afternoon.  "Ainslie, go to your nearest livestock supply store and get lice powder.  She's highly contagious--not to humans--but to everything else you've got there.  Get it on today."
     "But, Jay, she's semi-feral--she barely lets me touch her neck."
     "She's just given you a great reason to speed up the gentling process."
      I went to our local Agway and purchased a cylindrical can of Insectrin Dust.  No way was Dolly going to tolerate an assault of powder being shaken from above then having it rubbed into her chest and legs!  As I told Jay, I considered it a triumph that she now allowed me to scratch her neck and withers.  She remained tense though I think she was beginning to attach some pleasure to the sensation.

     The label underscored the dust's toxicity, so when I got home,  I pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and poured the recommended dosage--two ounces--into a Baggie.  I then tied it off, took a small nail and punched about twenty holes into the plastic.  There, that should work.
     Now out in Dolly's round pen, I took a seat on the little mounting block kept out there for that purpose.   I then held out the white plastic bucket containing her lunch.  I needed to garner as much of her good will as possible to succeed at the task at hand.  As soon as I stood up,  she did what she's always done--crossed to the other side of the pen.  With a wave of my hand I had her walk forward, then had her change direction.  She was anxious but kept to a walk,  her inside ear cocked toward me.
    This was the dynamic between two horses--one senior, the other junior.  I was controlling Dolly's feet, and by compelling her to periodically change direction,  she understood she could not simply run away.  It was icy out--I didn't want her to slip--and I was relieved she showed no desire to switch to a higher gear.
    After a few more quiet revolutions and changes of direction,  I took a few steps towards her.  I made sure to keep one shoulder angled in and my eyes cast down--a less threatening posture.  Dolly slowed to a halt, turned her head and looked at me.  We had just had a a brief but successful exchange in what famed horse whisperer Monty Roberts calls the Language of Equus.  
     I walked forward.  Then, when it looked like the pressure of my presence might compel her to want to escape by walking forward,  I stepped back until, once again, she was marginally less tense.  Within a couple of minutes I was at her side scratching her withers and neck for longer than I'd ever done before.   I backed up, turned and went to get a lead from the barn.   I had a choice between a twenty-five foot or twelve foot length.  If I took the longer, I wouldn't have to pull on her face or let go if she spooked.  Yet, that was a lot of rope to handle while applying medication.  I decided on the shorter even though I might need to let it go thus causing a slight set-back in her training.

     Lead in hand, I began the process once again.  I clipped it onto the ring of her halter.  This was the first time since her arrival  Dolly was 'in hand'!  Holding the plastic bag, I stroked her neck and shoulder, then moved slowly along her back.  But every once in a while I returned to the more habituated neck and shoulder.  Now for her other side which, at present, was too close to the round pen. It would be foolish to try to squeeze in between this fearful two year-old and the metal panel.   I needed to get her to step away.   So I stood about three feet away from her shoulder and pulled gently on the lead.  The goal was to get get her to yield her head and neck to the steady pressure which I would then immediately release.  I'd repeat this process until she stepped in with her forehand.  But Dolly turned in right away reversing quickly like an angel fish in an aquarium.  She immediately stepped into trot absorbing the slack in the rope.  I tried to keep up in order to prevent it from getting taut but couldn't.  As soon as Dolly felt the heavy pressure of the nylon halter around her face, she bolted.  And, for some inexplicable reason, I failed to drop the lead.  That would have been the right thing to do.  It's what I had done many many times before.  But that day my neurons somehow misfired.  Dolly pulled me into a mammoth-sized manure puddle covering a flat sheet of ice that any Zamboni driver would have been proud to call his own.  I flew forward body-surfing several yards through the freezing fetid liquid.
    Dripping and chilled to the bone, I asked Dolly to trust me just once more that day.  Five very long minutes later she did, and I was able to undo the potentially dangerous lead.   Sopping clothes now in the washer, I showered and dressed as quickly as the increasing pain in my arm and shoulder allowed. I then called the emergency appointments at Acton Medical Associates.  I had to get their okay before proceeding to the hospital.  "I think I broke my arm and should go directly to the ER."
    "Or you could get X-rayed here.  On a scale of one to ten how would you rate your pai--"
    "--nine!
     "Feel free to proceed directly to the hospital."

      "You've got an evulsion fracture in the upper humerus," said the doctor looking at the X-ray.  "The pull of the rope hyper-extended your arm.  A portion of your  tendon detached from the bone taking a small chunk with it."
     I groaned.  "Four to six weeks to heal."  (In my six decades of life I'd become a connoisseur of broken bones.")
     "About that, but you need to  see an orthopedic surgeon within the week."
     "I'm not going to need surgery?!"  My tone was half-interrogative, half-declaratory.
     He took it as a question.  "Don't know, but you are  going to need a good bit of  physical therapy.  Here's a prescription for some pain killers.  And get plenty of rest."
     "Okay."
    "I mean it--rest!"
     When I got home I fed and watered eight horses and a mule.  The farm must go on.