Racing for help

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Just as Brett finished, Kathleen and DaleD each pulled into the barnyard. BringingBr up the rear was the veterinarian’si truck.

Kathleen hurried to join me in the pasture. By now it was pitch-dark, but by the light of a powerful flashlight, we saw Phoenix raise his head then let it flop to the ground again. Together, Kathleen and I encouraged him to his feet and led him to the lit barn. Seeing no visible wounds or obviously broken bones, the veterinarian said it looked as if Phoenix may have been kicked in the head. She told us our best option was to take him to the nearest referral clinic, about 60 miles from our farm, but she warned us that treatment might cost thousands of dollars, and the prognosis was guarded, at best. Still, I didn’t hesitate to make the decision to go.

Phoenix couldn’t stand on his own, so riding loose in the big trailer wasn’t a safe option. Instead, we removed the back row of seats from my van, which made enough space for the colt to lie flat out on the floor, and gently laid him inside. Kathleen carefully crawled over him, sat with her legs stretched out on either side of Phoenix, and tenderly lifted his head to her lap. I jumped into the driver’s seat, and we headed out. At one point during the trip, I heard the scuffle of paddling hooves on carpet as Kathleen tried to soothe the colt through a seizure, murmuring, “It’s OK, Phoenix, it’s OK.”

A harrowing hour later, on a road black as pitch, my straining eyes