I’ve done some reading and, by June 11, I decide that Ruby has what is called the nine day scours. Her poor bum is raw, but she stands quietly while I clean and dress it. Every morning, I find dried diarrhea streamed down her beautiful yellow stall walls. I give her a half cup of TSC’s Dumor brand Equistages pellets morning and evening because I am looking to add substance to her stools. But, Doc tells me not to do that. He only wants her to have mare's milk.
I now keep a bucket of pine cleaner disinfectant mixed with water in the tack room. As I wash down Ruby’s stall, I am taken back to my childhood. We lived in a standard ranch home with three bedrooms and a bath at the end of a hall that extended from the living room. With six kids running up and down the hall, I guess that wall got pretty dirty—a continuous mural of muddy fingers. Every so often, mom would line up up like criminals, and we’d smear the wall with gel from a quart can of a pine scented cleaner. It would have been a fun form of finger painting in and of itself had we not felt as if we were being punished.
As a little diversion, here are a couple photos from my childhood. Note that I owned more than just one cowboy suit - because Santa always brings what we really want.
Back to the story . . .
It’s June 13, and we’ve run (literally) past the nine day scours—this is day 12. But, tonight, Ruby and I have a truly pleasant breakthrough. I was gone most the day and, other than for morning chores, don’t get out to the barn until around 7:30 in the evening. Rain had pulled a chill into the air, so I layer with a long-john top, tee-shirt, and sweat. I grain the girls and put hay in the outdoor feeder for Sara and Sparky, wash and medicate Ruby’s bum, and set about doing a bit of housekeeping.
The stall that houses my manure and hay barrows, pitch forks and shovels, is draped in dust-covered cobwebs. So, I pull everything out and sweep the wood floor, walls, and ceiling rafters. Zena munches hay quietly in her stall while Ruby wanders aimlessly about, seeing where she can find trouble. Empty plastic quart-sized fly trap jugs are sitting on the cement floor in the grooming area, waiting to be refilled with rotten vegetable powder and water. Long blue plastic hay baling twines, used to tie the jugs onto the tree branches, lay loosely around the jugs. After sniffing the empty but still repugnant jugs, Ruby decides to tug on one of the twines. The accompanying jug flies off the floor, pulling the second tangled jug along with it—following Ruby as she tears away from the ruckus in a frenzied escape. She and the jug are twenty feet into the arena before she opens her teeth enough to release the twine. It is the first time I see fear in her eyes. She runs straight to the open door of her mother’s stall; then spins around and stares at the jugs, lying lifelessly on the ground. I look back and forth between Ruby and the jugs before walking nonchalantly to one of the now dead demons. I lift the end of the twine and slowly drag the jug across the arena—not toward Ruby, just back and forth in the dirt. Ruby remains alert and fixated for a little while, then goes looking for milk. I put the jugs back into the grooming area and get back to work. It was an excellent communication exchange.
Before shutting down for the night, I lift Ruby’s little purple halter and lead rope from the hook on the stall door for her walking lesson. She stands quietly while I adjust and buckle the halter and attach the lead. No one is in the barn with us so my attention is not divided and I have no reason to rush. I am determined that she not feel any pressure from either halter or rope tonight. They are there just to keep her attention. After scrubbing her a little, I pat my thigh and say, “Walk with me” a couple times as I begin to walk forward. Before I walk the length of the lead, Ruby begins to follow. We do this three times in three directions before ending at the open door to Zena’s stall. I step in and, patting my heart, say “Come, Ruby.” I only say it once but keep patting my chest. Her face clearly says she does not want to come into the stall but, after about fifteen seconds, she acquiesces by quietly walking into the stall and to me. It's interesting to note that she did not want to enter the stall - even though Zena was in there. Clearly, I have an independent little lady on my hands; and not one who cares to be contained.
On June 14, it rains all day. I enjoy watching Ruby investigate her first mud puddles. Such a child. Kim drops by to help me shampoo Ruby’s butt, and to install new arena lights. It helps to have a friend who is a former pole jockey for Verizon. On the 15th, there is drippy rain—heavy and humid all day. I imagine that I am in the Garden of Eden.
In the evening, and for the next five days, I give Ruby an antibiotic. For two days, there is no diarrhea, but then it returns big time. Geez. I am frustrated but not unduly worried because Ruby remains active and happy. I have to leave town for five days and I dread the thought. Long before Ruby was born, I promised a best friend I would drive her across the state for her adult daughter’s wedding. She would not be able to attend if I back out now; and the bride is my former veterinary doctor whom I miss dearly. The timing is bad because Ruby is still suffering bad-butt and Doc left me with five-more day’s worth of antibiotics that need to be crushed in water and squirted into her mouth. Kim and Gary say they will do their best to cover for me.
On June 21, Kim and Gary clean Ruby’s legs and tail. Kim says she was an angel and took her antibiotic well. But, she knocked Gary down when he threw the stall door open. It’s not the first time my husband has landed on his can when trying to help. He’s never taken a real interest in the horses and is not around the barn much. But, he covers feeding when I'm gone and I appreciate when he steps in to help. Kim tells me that Ruby was not being aggressive. She just bumped Gary as she bounded past him.
For the next two days, Gary feeds in the mornings and Kim in the evenings. She brings various family members along to enjoy watching the horses as she lets them graze in the yard for an hour. I wish Gary could feel joy in this, too, but after thirty-plus years of marriage, I’ve lost hope for that ever happening. On the fourth morning, Ruby will not let Gary clean her. I suspect she senses his lack of confidence and his minor frustration that he must perform this marital duty. But, in the evening, he teams up with Kim and Ruby gets a good bum wash.
While at the wedding, the bride - who is my former vet - suggests that, maybe, the grain I am feeding Ruby’s mother is too rich. Upon returning home, I cut it with crimped oats.
