They both nodded. “We thought she got overheated because of the high temps,” he said. “We gave her plenty of water,” he said defensively. “She just wouldn’t drink it.” Father and daughter both winced as Nola inserted the needle into the thick muscle of Bijou’s sweaty flank.
“Hopefully this will relax her, ease some of her pain. Let’s get her to the stable,” Nola directed. “I can examine her better there.” Bijou fought as they made their way to the barn, a brand-new structure that had more windows and square footage than most homes. Inside, an acrid ammonia smell prickled Nola’s nose. “No one changed her bedding,” she said, glancing down at the foul-smelling straw. She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.
Uneaten grain remained in Bijou’s bin—a perfect petri dish for mold. Right now, the state of Bijou’s living quarters was the least of her worries. Some people shouldn’t have the right to be horse owners, Nola thought as she got Bijou situated into the stall’s doorway.
The close quarters settled the mare a bit. Though Bijou was no longer rearing back on her haunches she stretched her neck out, her mouth opening and closing in a series of yawns.
“She’s sleepy,” the girl said. “That’s good right? The medicine is making her feel better?”
“She’s not sleepy,” Nola murmured and reached for her stethoscope. “It’s one way a horse tries to calm itself. She is stressed and in pain.” Nola inserted the ear tips and pressed the chest piece to Bijou’s flank, moving the silver disc every few seconds while the two looked on anxiously. “You should have called me right away.” Nola ripped the stethoscope from her ears and tossed it aside. “Looks like a twisted bowel.”
“Is that bad?” the daughter asked.
“Very bad when it’s not caught early enough.” Again Nola reached into her bag and this time pulled out a package of surgical gloves and a large tube of topical anesthetic. She applied the cream while Bijou pawed at the ground and snuffled, her nostrils flaring.
“I’ve been out of town for work,” the rancher stammered. “We had no idea she was this bad off.”
Despite the size of the barn, the air was stifling. The rancher’s shirt was stained with sweat and beads of perspiration dotted the girl’s nose, magnifying her freckles. Nola used her forearm to wipe her own face, her eyes burning from the salt. “Did you do zero research when you decided to buy this animal?” Nola asked angrily.
The man wasn’t used to being talked to in such a manner, not accustomed to being challenged in the boardroom let alone his own backyard. “Now listen,” he began but trailed off when Nola slid her gloved hand into Bijou’s rectum.
“Her large colon is twisted. You have two choices here,” Nola explained. “We transport Bijou to the clinic for emergency surgery or we euthanize her.”
“Wait, what?” the daughter squeaked, eyes wide with fear. “She’s dying?”
“As we speak.” Nola pulled off the gloves with a snap. “What do you want to do?”
“How much will surgery cost?” The father rubbed a smooth hand across his face.
“Daddy!” the girl cried. “We want the operation.”
“Six to eight thousand and that’s just for the surgery. Follow-up care will be more,” Nola said and gently ran her fingers across Bijou’s back. “What do you want to do?” There was no response. She reached into her bag for another syringe and another vial. She pulled back the plunger and inserted the needle into the rubber top, filling the syringe with a clear liquid.
“What is that?” the rancher asked staring at the long needle. “What are you doing?”
“It’s sodium pentobarbital.” She tapped the syringe to remove any air bubbles. “What do you want to do?” Nola repeated. “Every second you wait lessens her chance of survival, increases her suffering.”
“I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t know.” He looked back and forth between Bijou and his daughter.
“Make a decision,” Nola snapped. “The pain medication I’ve given Bijou isn’t keeping up with the strangling of her bowel.”
“Daddy,” the girl cried, grabbing onto her father’s arm. “She has to have the surgery.”
“The surgery,” he said in a rush. “We want the surgery.”
“Okay,” Nola said, returning the syringe to her bag. “Let’s get her loaded into your trailer and to the clinic.”
The man ran to his truck while the girl hesitated, eyes red with tears. “You can save her, can’t you?” she asked.
“I can’t promise anything. She’s very sick. You should have called me a lot sooner,” Nola said gruffly. “We have to hurry.” The girl ran, crying, toward her father’s truck. Some people were just so stupid, Nola thought. Once the man and the girl were out of sight, Nola retrieved the syringe from her bag and in one swift move plunged it into Bijou’s jugular.
“There, there,” Nola whispered into Bijou’s ear. “It won’t be long now.” Black flies gathered at Bijou’s open eyes, nostrils and ears. They find the dying so quickly, Nola thought as the rancher pulled his truck up to the barn. Nola guided Bijou into the trailer and secured the rear doors.
Nola trotted to the open truck window. “I’ll call ahead to the clinic so they’ll be ready for you,” she said glancing over at the girl, who was chewing frantically at her thumbnail.
“You’re not going to do the surgery?” the rancher asked in confusion.
Nola shook her head. “No, every second counts. The surgeon will be waiting for you to arrive. He’ll take good care of her. You need to hurry.” Nola slapped the hood of the truck as if to prod it forward.
The horse would make it to the clinic but wouldn’t survive the surgery. Nola had an excellent perioperative success rate so she was glad to pass the surgery off to someone else. Let Dr. Rasmussen deal with it. Nola didn’t like him anyway. Maybe the rancher would ask for a necropsy; those she enjoyed. Nola hadn’t performed a postmortem on a horse in a long time.
She checked her cell phone in case the hospital in Willow Creek had called. Her mother had fallen down the basement steps a week ago, breaking a hip, her right ulna and three ribs. The surgery on her hip went as well as could be expected for a woman with diabetes, smoker’s lung and osteoporosis.
There were no calls from the hospital but there were three missed calls from the clinic she worked for—Ransom County Animal Health Center. RCAHC, owned by two vets, was a mixed practice, meaning it served all your veterinary needs from your guinea pig’s mange to artificially inseminating your cattle.