The June bank holiday weekend was hot! A nice relaxed Sunday morning was beginning to drag on, chores were stacking up and I was anxious to get going.
Michael was organising his day of wrapping and stacking silage bales while I tried to motivate the dilly-dallying kids into action.
As Michael hadn’t quite finished his tea, I grabbed the opportunity to leave them with him and nip out to turn out horses.
As well as the kids’ ponies, I have my mare, Molly. We share a lot of history, she’s my biggest confidante and trusted listener!
I love riding her, she’s challenging and rewarding with a lovely attitude. As I dash down the yard to her shed, her pal neighs, and then I hear Molly’s call. It sounds wrong.
Swollen hindquarter
Peering into the shed, my chest tightens. She is standing awkwardly at the back of the shed, on three legs. Her right hindquarter is extremely swollen.
Immediately, I think of lymphangitis, a condition in horses where the hind leg swells, usually caused by bacterial infection. Except the swelling is in the wrong place for lymphangitis.
I can see by her tense stance that she is in pain. Briefly, I consider and quickly dismiss colic; her eye is bright and she’s breathing normally. She wants to walk but can’t.
Naturally I assume the worst - a fractured pelvis. The shed is huge, but perhaps she got cast and injured herself. I don’t know. This is serious, I call the vet.
Strange lockdown
The lump in my throat keeps leaping up to strangle me as negative thoughts invade my mind. What if it’s broken? What if I have to put her down? How will I explain to the kids?
In these strange lockdown times, my capacity for emotional excess is very limited. I was in danger of reducing into a pathetic puddle so I refocused.
With only two minutes before Michael had to go and stack bales, I turned out the other equines. After explaining the situation to the kids, 
Nelly told me not to worry and that she would mind Katy and I could look after Molly.
The essential routine jobs seemed like such a hindrance, but we hurriedly got most of them done before the vet arrived.
Our local vet Larry Dunne is a veritable force of nature, always very decisive and assured. He assessed and puzzled over Molly’s condition; manipulating her leg he declared it unlikely to be broken - to my immense relief!
Initially, there was no definitive diagnosis, but a definite course of treatment was prescribed, major doses of anti-inflammatories and antibiotics. Whatever it was, we met it head on. Close observation of Molly’s response to the treatment would be critical.
Fretted
All day I fretted over Molly, noting every little thing. Hay and water was brought to her. As the drugs took effect, she began to make little movements on three legs.
Every hour I sponged her hindquarter with icy water. She ate her hay, but wouldn’t touch the bran mash. Water remained untouched. However, the carrots we offered were eagerly accepted, nuzzling for more.
By 4pm the swelling was much reduced and she finally drank some water by 6pm. At 9.30pm, I arrived to find her contentedly gazing out over the view, munching her hay, having eventually made the 45ft to the front of the shed. For the first time all day, I took a breath.
All-consuming
The days have passed in an all-consuming blur of hosing, icing, walking, massaging and forensically examining Molly’s leg. Larry was pestered with calls as her condition improved, then regressed dramatically (more drugs administered) and improved again.
The situation now looks profoundly more positive, a recuperation plan is under way. It is uncertain terrain, we are not home and hosed, yet.