I had just flopped onto my couch, remote in hand. Sunny, one of my teenage daughters, breezed through the front door, phone against her ear, and gave the door a careless slam. The windows rattled, and I raised my head.

“I think one of my teenagers must have just walked in,” I said to my daughter’s back as she disappeared down the hall. The door to her room slammed shut.

“Hi, Sunny!” I said to no one, then started my movie.

I was happily munching my popcorn when my daughter reappeared and flopped onto the couch next to me. She was now wearing her favorite huge pajamas and hoodie, and she snatched a handful of my popcorn.

“Whatcha watching, Mom?”

Interrupted

I started to answer, but my phone rang. It was one of my good friends, but I wanted to watch my movie, and debated letting it go to voicemail. My daughter snatched the phone from my hand and gave me an evil smile.

“Hey, Annie. Yes, she’s right here—hold on!”

I sighed and took the phone, but the panic in my friend’s voice got me off the couch, fast. I was half dressed before she’d finished telling me what was going on, and my daughter watched me run back and forth, grabbing my muck boots, coat, hat, headlamp, and vet bag.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Annie’s watching Libby’s horses, and one is down. I’ve got to go help her.” Libby was also a good friend, and she’d given my daughters riding lessons since they were small.

To my surprise, Sunny leaped off the couch and pulled on her muck boots and Carhartt coat. “I’m going with you!”

This was nice. Sunny didn’t come on calls with me very often, and I pointed at her pajamas, bagging over the tops of her boots.

“You might want your coveralls, kiddo.” Sunny shrugged, and followed me out to the truck, and we roared out of the driveway, headlights slicing into the dark night.

Down for the Count

We scanned the field as we pulled up to Libby’s place, and a dark figure waved a flashlight at us frantically. I parked as close as I could, and we ducked through the wire fence and hurried over to a small group of people huddled around a dark shape on the ground.

It was Libby’s favorite mare, Annabelle, and her head moved weakly as I approached. Her eyes were wide as she struggled desperately for a minute, then lay still.

I rapidly checked her vitals and gum color and listened to her belly, but everything seemed normal. I noticed some bloody tissue under her tail when I took her temperature, and the muddy ground was torn up around her.

We were on a gently sloping hill, and Annabelle’s body lay slightly downhill from her legs. I suspected that she was cast (unable to get to her feet). When a horse is in the same position for too long, the weight of their body can injure muscles and they can become paralyzed in one or more limbs.

There was no way to know how long the mare had been stuck like this, but the blood under her tail told me that the magpies had been pecking at her, so it had probably been quite a while. Would we even be able to get her back up?

Annie and the others had brought several long ropes, and I tied slip knots around both of the mare’s down legs. Sunny was darting around us, anxious to help, and she held the light for me as I secured the ropes.

“Now Sunny, I want you to stay far away from Annabelle when we flip her over!” I said sternly. “She may thrash and struggle, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sunny nodded and I chuckled at her billowing pajamas and tall boots.

“You look like a pirate,” I told her. She grinned at me and saluted, then ducked out of the way as I called to the others holding the ropes.

We stood in a line just downhill of Annabelle. “One! Two! And THREE!”

A Big Scare

We all heaved as hard as we could. Annabelle slowly rocked onto her back, then rolled completely over. We scrambled back as she lunged to her feet, staggered, began to fall, and briefly caught herself, shaking the ropes free.

Annabelle rocked violently in place, then tumbled forward, lurching rapidly down a steeper section of the hill. To my dismay, Sunny was directly below her, running for dear life in her flapping pajamas and coat, knees almost to her chest as the mare plunged and scrambled and staggered barely 3 inches behind her.

The scene seemed to go on forever. Annie and I watched helplessly as the figures careened wildly down the hill.

Sunny finally had the presence of mind to duck behind a thick bush, and mercifully Annabelle came to a stop above her. The mare wobbled in place but stayed on her feet. I made sure Sunny was OK, then haltered the mare and coaxed her up the hill. Annie coaxed a shaken Sunny along behind us.

Annabelle and Sunny both recovered quickly, and the mare took some hay from my daughter’s hands after drinking half a bucket of water. Sunny helped rub Annabelle down with a thick, soft towel.

Sweet Relief

On the drive home, I kept picturing Sunny fleeing through the dark in her huge pajamas with the horse right behind her, and I laughed until my sides cramped.

“Nice, Mom,” Sunny said indignantly. “I almost die, and you’re laughing about it?”

I gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m very glad you’re OK, sweetie. Maybe next time, run across the hill, not down it?”

She glared at me.

“Maybe next time, tell me that before the horse gets up!”

This edition of Vet Adventures appeared in the March 2024 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: A Night of Terror appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I had just flopped onto my couch, remote in hand. Sunny, one of my teenage daughters, breezed through the front door, phone against her ear, and gave the door a careless slam. The windows rattled, and I raised my head.

“I think one of my teenagers must have just walked in,” I said to my daughter’s back as she disappeared down the hall. The door to her room slammed shut.

“Hi, Sunny!” I said to no one, then started my movie.

I was happily munching my popcorn when my daughter reappeared and flopped onto the couch next to me. She was now wearing her favorite huge pajamas and hoodie, and she snatched a handful of my popcorn.

“Whatcha watching, Mom?”

Interrupted

I started to answer, but my phone rang. It was one of my good friends, but I wanted to watch my movie, and debated letting it go to voicemail. My daughter snatched the phone from my hand and gave me an evil smile.

“Hey, Annie. Yes, she’s right here—hold on!”

I sighed and took the phone, but the panic in my friend’s voice got me off the couch, fast. I was half dressed before she’d finished telling me what was going on, and my daughter watched me run back and forth, grabbing my muck boots, coat, hat, headlamp, and vet bag.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Annie’s watching Libby’s horses, and one is down. I’ve got to go help her.” Libby was also a good friend, and she’d given my daughters riding lessons since they were small.

To my surprise, Sunny leaped off the couch and pulled on her muck boots and Carhartt coat. “I’m going with you!”

This was nice. Sunny didn’t come on calls with me very often, and I pointed at her pajamas, bagging over the tops of her boots.

“You might want your coveralls, kiddo.” Sunny shrugged, and followed me out to the truck, and we roared out of the driveway, headlights slicing into the dark night.

Down for the Count

We scanned the field as we pulled up to Libby’s place, and a dark figure waved a flashlight at us frantically. I parked as close as I could, and we ducked through the wire fence and hurried over to a small group of people huddled around a dark shape on the ground.

It was Libby’s favorite mare, Annabelle, and her head moved weakly as I approached. Her eyes were wide as she struggled desperately for a minute, then lay still.

I rapidly checked her vitals and gum color and listened to her belly, but everything seemed normal. I noticed some bloody tissue under her tail when I took her temperature, and the muddy ground was torn up around her.

We were on a gently sloping hill, and Annabelle’s body lay slightly downhill from her legs. I suspected that she was cast (unable to get to her feet). When a horse is in the same position for too long, the weight of their body can injure muscles and they can become paralyzed in one or more limbs.

There was no way to know how long the mare had been stuck like this, but the blood under her tail told me that the magpies had been pecking at her, so it had probably been quite a while. Would we even be able to get her back up?

Annie and the others had brought several long ropes, and I tied slip knots around both of the mare’s down legs. Sunny was darting around us, anxious to help, and she held the light for me as I secured the ropes.

“Now Sunny, I want you to stay far away from Annabelle when we flip her over!” I said sternly. “She may thrash and struggle, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sunny nodded and I chuckled at her billowing pajamas and tall boots.

“You look like a pirate,” I told her. She grinned at me and saluted, then ducked out of the way as I called to the others holding the ropes.

We stood in a line just downhill of Annabelle. “One! Two! And THREE!”

A Big Scare

We all heaved as hard as we could. Annabelle slowly rocked onto her back, then rolled completely over. We scrambled back as she lunged to her feet, staggered, began to fall, and briefly caught herself, shaking the ropes free.

Annabelle rocked violently in place, then tumbled forward, lurching rapidly down a steeper section of the hill. To my dismay, Sunny was directly below her, running for dear life in her flapping pajamas and coat, knees almost to her chest as the mare plunged and scrambled and staggered barely 3 inches behind her.

The scene seemed to go on forever. Annie and I watched helplessly as the figures careened wildly down the hill.

Sunny finally had the presence of mind to duck behind a thick bush, and mercifully Annabelle came to a stop above her. The mare wobbled in place but stayed on her feet. I made sure Sunny was OK, then haltered the mare and coaxed her up the hill. Annie coaxed a shaken Sunny along behind us.

Annabelle and Sunny both recovered quickly, and the mare took some hay from my daughter’s hands after drinking half a bucket of water. Sunny helped rub Annabelle down with a thick, soft towel.

Sweet Relief

On the drive home, I kept picturing Sunny fleeing through the dark in her huge pajamas with the horse right behind her, and I laughed until my sides cramped.

“Nice, Mom,” Sunny said indignantly. “I almost die, and you’re laughing about it?”

I gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m very glad you’re OK, sweetie. Maybe next time, run across the hill, not down it?”

She glared at me.

“Maybe next time, tell me that before the horse gets up!”

This edition of Vet Adventures appeared in the March 2024 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Night of Terror appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

Dr. Diehl suspected Cushing’s disease or equine metabolic disease could be at play. After the blood draw, however, Angus wouldn’t stop bleeding from the jugular vein long after the needle was removed. His gums were covered in purple splotches, called petechia, a sign of leaky blood vessels.

“What would cause that?” Greta asked anxiously.

“There are a few possibilities,” I said. “Liver disease, blood parasite, even cancer. There could be an infectious disease causing it, but we usually don’t see it in this region of the country. There are a few genetic diseases that could explain it, but those usually manifest much earlier in life. The bloodwork will hopefully answer a lot of questions.”

No Easy Answers

The bloodwork answered a few questions, but all the tests for infection, liver problems, infectious diseases and parasites of concern were negative. Angus had a very low platelet count, and he also had high insulin levels and Cushing’s disease, neither of which explained the low platelets or the bleeding.

I consulted with the specialists at the University, and their suspicion was cancer.

I ultrasounded Angus’s belly and chest but didn’t see anything abnormal, tapped his belly and found normal abdominal fluid, and even performed a rectal exam, which was also normal.

I ran a fecal on normal manure, and tested normal urine. I was stumped.

Angus continued to decline, and when I returned the next day, I could see a line of edema (swelling caused by trapped fluid) forming on his lower abdomen. He was weaker, but still wanted his food and was still passing manure normally.

I carefully gave him several injections of steroids, vitamin K, and a medication to help the blood start to clot. I had no idea what I was trying to treat, but I had to try something.

The First Clue

The next day was even worse, and I was starting to fear that we were going to lose Angus to this mystery killer. I was listening to his chest and wincing at the new crackles and rattles in his lungs when Greta handed me the phone.

“It’s Lily. She wants to talk to you.”

I slowly took the phone. Lily had trusted me with the care of her best friend for her entire life, and I was about to completely let her and Angus down.

Lily was crying into the phone. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it is, Lily.” I said gently. “I’ve tested him for everything we can think of but he’s getting worse, and I don’t know what’s causing this.”

I was only half-listening as Lily described everything that Angus had done and everything that she had done just 10 days before when she was home.

Then I heard her say, “I really thought the supplement was helping him,” and I suddenly remembered that her roommate’s father was a horse trainer.

An Answer, at Last

“Lily, what supplement? Did you put him on something?”

“It’s supposed to help with weight loss. My roommate’s dad suggested she give it to me.”

Greta retrieved the small plastic tub. I sniffed the odorless white powder, shook some out on the table and finally stuck my finger into it and tasted it. It was horribly bitter, but suddenly I knew exactly what was wrong with Angus.

“Greta, I’m no pharmacologist, but I’d know aspirin powder anywhere. When did he last get this?”

Greta was shamefaced. “This morning,” she whispered. “We thought it was just herbs.”

It was a rare reaction, but a well-documented one. The aspirin was destroying Angus’s platelets, and we had to get him off it immediately.

The lab confirmed that the powder was aspirin, and I put Angus on some oral medicine to help his stomach recover. For almost a week, there wasn’t much change. But then he slowly started to get better.

I started the Cushing’s medicine as soon as I dared, and kept a gimlet eye on his platelets, but they were steadily rising.

There for Each Other

One day I was pulling my stethoscope away from Angus’s chest when a tall blur with wild black hair leaped at me, crushing me in a bear hug.

“I almost killed him,” Lily sobbed. “He’s really going to be OK?”

“He’s really going to be OK. And no more powders from horse trainers, understand?”

Lily was now haltering Angus.

“I promise, Dr. Diehl. And I’m staying home to take care of him.”

I watched them walk slowly down the driveway, their heads together as though they were sharing secrets. Angus’s ears were pricked forward in delight and his neck was arched.

He still had his girl to raise. And, despite his ordeal, I knew without a doubt that he was going to be OK.

This conclusion to Angus’s story appeared in the January/February 2024 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Big Angus, Part Two appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

Angus would obediently jog in a slow circle while Lily pretended that they were the Pony Express delivering mail in hostile territories. Sometimes Lily and Angus were a mounted army general riding along battle lines to boost the morale of weary troops, or a doctor and his trusty steed delivering medicine to fight dysentery in the camps.

Whatever the script, Angus always fell right into character, and it was hard to say who had more fun, Lily or her big, gentle horse.

Growing Up Together

Angus had been my patient since Lily was a toddler. Angus was a 2-year-old then, and was one of the calmest and most well-behaved youngsters I’d ever been around.

I was cleaning up my gear on that first visit when Lily’s mom Greta walked Angus by, a tiny bright-eyed little girl with a mop of black hair sitting on his back. Normally, the sight of a toddler on a young horse would stop my heart, but even then, Angus knew that Lily was his little girl, and he was going to take care of her.

As Lily grew, it wasn’t uncommon for her parents to find her down in the barn, climbing Angus like a tree, standing on his back, and pretending they were circus performers, or on one memorable occasion, falling fast asleep against his side as he slumbered.

Lily would do her homework in his stall or paddock, host tea parties for Angus—always the guest of honor (though he preferred oats to tea)—and there was a framed photo of Angus and Lily on the bedside table in her room.

Time for a Diet

As children and horses will, Lily grew older, and so did Angus. When Lily started middle school, soccer practice and friends took up more and more of her time. While she still spent as much time as she could with her beloved horse, it just wasn’t the same. Angus was gaining a little weight, and Greta and I put him on a diet.

By the time Lily started high school, her schedule was so full that she had little time to ride. Angus was often just a dot in the field, far away with his herdmates, munching tasty grass and dozing in the sun, which isn’t a bad way for a horse to live—except Angus was supposed to be on a diet.

Greta did her best, but since the horses all went out during the day, she didn’t want to leave Angus in by himself, and hiking out at midday to catch a horse who didn’t want to be caught was out of the question for two school teachers and a high school senior.

The family switched the turnout schedule, letting the herd out at night and keeping them in during the day. They mowed the fields down as far as they could, and even tried a grazing muzzle, but Angus was an expert at getting it off and losing it.

Lily hired a friend to exercise Angus several days a week, and he now had a beautiful dry lot pen with a roomy loafing shed and a 30-year-old mare to share it with. Lily still spent as much time with her horse as she could, and while Angus didn’t lose any weight, he was bright-eyed and content. Lily took their picture from her bedside table with her when she left for college.

Something Amiss

I was out to vaccinate the herd one spring day and was alarmed by Angus’s appearance. I hadn’t seen Angus since the fall, and the difference in him was startling.

His neck had developed a thick crest, his eyes seemed to be bulging and watering. There were fat pads on his sides and tailhead. His coat was also looking unusually shaggy for spring, plus he had a horrible haircut, which didn’t help.

Greta was somber when she led him over to my truck.

“Dr. Diehl, I know he looks awful. We’ve done everything that you recommended, but I just can’t get the weight off! We took him off pasture completely and he only gets soaked grass hay, but nothing helps. Lately he’s had so little energy, we haven’t had the heart to exercise him too much. I don’t know what to do!”

I pointed to a line of jagged hair and clipper marks along the horse’s side and raised an eyebrow at Greta who laughed.

“That’s Lily’s handiwork from when she was home last week. I told her not to quit her day job, but she wouldn’t stop fussing over him. Her roommate’s dad is a horse trainer, and I think they were putting ideas into her head.”

I was half listening. “I need to draw some blood, Greta. He has all the symptoms for Cushing’s disease, as well as equine metabolic syndrome, and if I’m right, we need to get him on some medication right away.”

The horse was as patient as ever as I slid the needle into his jugular vein and dark red blood welled into the blood tubes that I switched out as each filled up. I had two red top tubes to fill, two large purple tops, a blue top and a green top tube, and Greta clutched them as I handed them over one at a time.

“What on earth, Dr. Diehl! Is he going to have any blood left?”

I laughed. “He’s got plenty left, but I still need a few more tubes filled. Hang in there, Angus.”

Angus didn’t care. I finally pulled the needle out and held some pressure against his neck for a minute. I took my hand away from his neck, and Greta and I took turns petting the big horse and talking about Angus and Lily’s adventures and laughing at a memory of Lily and Angus covered in mud and chasing each other in the rain.

Mysterious Bleeding

A drop of blood splatted wetly on the top of my boot, and I looked automatically for the source. I was alarmed to see a large swelling over Angus’s jugular vein where I’d drawn the blood. Another large drop was forming, and I pulled some gauze out of my nearby kit and held a wad firmly against the horse’s neck.

“He’s got a hematoma over the jugular vein, Greta.” I said apologetically. “It can happen sometimes. I guess I didn’t hold the pressure on long enough.”

I kept the pressure firmly against his shaggy neck, but when I released it after several minutes, the bleeding continued, and the swelling was even larger.

This was not normal at all. I left Greta holding pressure on the neck while I ran for some abdominal packs and Elastikon tape. I rolled up the thick cotton pack and pressed it over Angus’s jugular and bandaged it in place as snugly as I dared.

I checked his vitals. He had an elevated heart rate and respiratory rate, but his temperature was normal.

I lifted his lip to check his gums and was dismayed to see a line of purple splotches across the tissues of his mouth, and his gums had a faint yellowish hue.

“Those splotches are called petechia,” I said to Greta. “They’re caused by leaky blood vessels. Something is causing his blood not to clot, and he also looks jaundiced to me.”

“What would cause that?” Greta asked anxiously.

“There are a few possibilities,” I said. “Liver disease, blood parasite, even cancer. There could be an infectious disease causing it, but we usually don’t see it in this region of the country. There are a few genetic diseases that could explain it, but those usually manifest much earlier in life. The bloodwork will hopefully answer a lot of questions.”

Stay tuned for the conclusion to Angus’s story, coming to HorseIllustrated.com next week.

The post Vet Adventures: Big Angus, Part One appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

I was used to dealing with gruesome emergencies at inconvenient hours, but when I realized that the photo was from Catherine de Bourgh, I wanted to pack my truck and flee the country. (Jane Austin fans, take note: Her name wasn’t really Catherine de Bourgh, but it should have been, so that’s what we’ll call her.)

Sticking it Out

Unfortunately, fleeing wasn’t an option. I was on call that weekend. I reluctantly started to call Catherine, but naturally she was already calling me, and I accidentally hung up on her trying to dial the phone. Knowing she’d call right back, I waited, and milliseconds later, her name flashed hysterically across my screen.

“Buckle has a bad cut, and I need you this instant,” Catherine gasped. “Come right away!”

It was always like that with Catherine, who had me on speed dial. I’d lost count of the frantic late-night phone calls describing horses that weren’t colicking, lameness that was gone when I arrived, and neurological problems that disappeared as I started to take the horse’s vitals. And staying home and talking her through it was not an option; when Her Ladyship demanded my attendance, attend I did, and fast.

It was a miracle that I’d lasted as her vet for as long as I had, for Lady Catherine ate vets, trainers, farriers, and her friends for lunch. If it were still legal to stake dismembered heads on the front gate, there would have been several score of them.

You might wonder why I’d stuck it out for so long, but back then, I had this fantasy that I was special and the gruesome fate of my predecessors didn’t apply to me. It was an oversight on my part that eventually came with extremely painful consequences, but that is a story for another column.

The Exam

It was somehow easier to make haste out to Catherine’s knowing that I was truly attending to an animal in need of veterinary care. I was all business when I bustled into the palatial barn with a beautiful chandelier lit to the nines, the freshly varnished wood walls gleaming.

Buckle, a Welsh Pony mare, was standing in the corner of her stall, relatively unconcerned by the horrible wound that gaped at the base of her neck and shoulder. Luis, the barn hand, was holding the lead rope and silently feeding cookies to Buckle, who munched steadily as Catherine haughtily handed the treats to Luis from her seat nearby.

“I haven’t left her side,” said Catherine. “She could colic, so I have to stay, even though I’m simply exhausted.” She held up the tin of cookies. “These are made specially for Buckle by her nutritionist.”

I never had a sensible response to Catherine’s monologues, so I nodded politely and hauled in my equipment and quickly examined the mare. Although it was very easy to focus on the wound, I knew from experience not to neglect the physical exam, as there could be other injuries that weren’t as obvious.

Buckle’s heart rate and respirations were elevated, and she shuddered as I gently palpated her neck and side. There was a firm swelling over her ribcage, and as I pressed my fingers into the area, I felt a slight grinding deep in the tissues.

I checked her gums, and they were pale—probably mild shock. Had she been spooked by something, then crashed into the door of her outdoor run? I glanced over at the large doorway, and sure enough, hair and blood were deeply embedded into the log frame.

I pointed to the blood. “She’s cracked at least two ribs,” I said to Catherine, who seized Luis’s arm and sobbed loudly.

“Why is the universe punishing me?” she wailed. This was everyone’s cue to fuss over Catherine, but since poor little Buckle was technically the one getting punished by the universe, I decided to let Luis attend to Catherine this time.

Good as New

I sedated the pony and clipped and cleaned the wound thoroughly. I was able to close it in several layers, and I applied a row of tension-reducing stitches for good measure.

I tried to show Catherine the drain tube I’d placed to prevent fluid from accumulating under the skin, but Catherine pointedly turned her head away, put a hand to her chest and sipped her herbal tea while Luis anxiously patted her shoulder and shook his head at me.

When Catherine had recovered, she smiled bravely at Luis. “Dr. Diehl really is the best, isn’t she? We should build her an apartment in the barn, Luis!”

A horrible vision of myself living in Catherine’s chandeliered barn and pouring her a midnight cup of tea flashed into my mind. I forced a laugh and handed over a pile of labelled medications for Buckle.

“Buckle must not go out for three weeks,” I said sternly to Catherine. I explained my concerns with the wound coming apart, but assured her that it would heal just fine.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of around-the-clock visits, calls, photos, emails and texts, not only from Catherine and Luis, but also from her trainer, the animal communicator, and a vet who only did acupuncture, all with medical recommendations for me.

The wound dehisced as expected, with Catherine insisting that I call the surgeons at the university every other day with updates and wondering to Luis if I’d done any recent continuing education on wound management.

On the day that I pronounced the wound fully healed, Catherine hugged Luis tightly, then turned to me.

“Of course, Luis and I never doubted you for a minute, Dr. Diehl. You really are the best!”

This edition of Vet Adventures appeared in the October 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Lady Catherine de Bourgh appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

Archie Nemesis

Unfortunately, when a barn manager called about a lame horse a few weeks later, I was busy, and Kelly didn’t realize whose horse it was and booked the appointment. When we figured out that it was Rose’s gelding Archie, Kelly flopped back on her seat and shook her fists at the ceiling.

“Why does the universe hate me?” she wailed.

“You? I’m the one who has to convince her that I’m a qualified veterinarian every time I see her horse.”

Kelly did a perfect Rose imitation. “Why didn’t you know that my sweet boy was about to go lame? Don’t you know I have a show coming up?”

I started laughing and Kelly continued. “My vet back East had such an instinct for these things. Oh well, we can’t all be like Dr. Perfect, can we?”

Second Choice

The next morning, we pulled up to the imposing front entrance of Rose’s barn and punched in our gate code. I pulled into a parking lot full of gleaming Teslas and Tahoes. We didn’t have to look far for Rose in her pristine Dubarry barn coat, holding Archie and barking orders at a stall worker. My stethoscope and thermometer were already in my tote, and I added a hoof pick and hoof testers.

“Hi Rose!” Kelly said brightly. “We’re sorry to hear that Archie isn’t feeling well.”

Rose ignored her and addressed me. “The sports medicine team from the university was in the area last week. They’re really the best, but they won’t be back for a month, so I had to call you.”

The instruments in my kit rattled slightly. Archie, who was badly behaved on a good day, snorted and pranced in place.

“You have to move slowly and quietly around horses!” Rose barked. “They’re very sensitive animals.”

I gritted my teeth and forced my voice to sound pleasant. “What seems to be the problem, Rose?”

“Well, it’s obviously his right front leg. My trainer saw it from across the barn. We think it’s the shoulder, but you’re the vet.”

“Can you please walk him down the breezeway for me?” I said briskly. Rose handed the lead rope to Kelly, and Archie immediately planted his feet and lifted his head, the whites of his eyes showing. Kelly clucked gently to him, but he refused to move.

“Horses respond best to confidence,” said Rose. She snatched the rope from Kelly, who’d grown up on a Thoroughbred farm and was an accomplished eventer. “Watch what I do here.”

Rose faced her horse and yanked on the lead, but Archie was mad and raised his head even higher. Then he ran backwards, dragging Rose with him. Kelly and I exchanged looks as Rose scolded him, shook the rope, made weird purring sounds, then got a striped wand and waved it at the horse, who danced away in awkward half-circles.

Abscessively Wrong

“OK, you can take him now!” Rose panted. Kelly snatched the rope and growled something in Archie’s ear. She walked off calmly, the big horse following behind her.

Archie was absolutely limping on the right front. I gently palpated the leg, looking for heat or swelling, and the big horse tensed when I pressed on a spot on his coronet band. There was a thread of heat running down the outside quarter of the foot.

I retrieved my hoof testers and identified a painful area around one of the nails of the shoe.

“When was he shod?” I asked Rose, who made a face at me.

“It’s not his foot. I already told you, it’s in the shoulder!”

I looked up at her. “Rose, put your hand here and feel the swelling and heat in his coronet. He’s got an abscess, and this shoe may need to come off. I’m going to pull this one nail and see if it’s the problem.”

Rose was silent as I returned to my truck and grabbed my farrier tools. Soon I was working the nail free from the hoof, and a gush of black-ish pus began to flow from the nail hole. The stench was terrible.

Rose gasped. “He’s bleeding! What did you do to him?”

“That’s pus, Rose,” said Kelly in exasperation. “There’s an abscess in his foot.”

Rose huffed as I flushed the nail holes with a special mixture that I liked. I poulticed the foot, gave Archie a tetanus shot and some pain medicine, and instructed Rose to soak the foot daily. I decided to leave the shoe in place. From experience, I knew that he’d be feeling a lot better in a few days.

Hocus Poultice

Kelly and I returned to recheck Archie on day five, and I decided not to comment on the big glob of poultice on his shoulder. Rose silently haltered Archie, and he walked off smoothly. The heat was gone from his foot and the pain and swelling had resolved.

“He’s a lot better today,” I announced. “The infection in the foot is resolving nicely.”

“Yes, my trainer brought by some better poultice, and we also treated his shoulder after you left. It’s amazing stuff—you should learn about it.”

I’d had enough of Rose and her trainer, and I looked her right in the eye. “Yes, it’s amazing how draining the pus out of the foot makes the shoulder feel better. You know, you could have put cow manure on that shoulder and Archie would have recovered.”

Rose blinked in awe. “Well, then why didn’t you do that instead of making his foot bleed?”

This edition of Vet Adventures about Rose appeared in the September 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

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“Hello, Dr. Diehl? I have a question about a cat named Devil Breath. He’s at our clinic today and Laurie said to get his records from you?”

“Devil Breath …” I repeated slowly.

Normally, I’d just email the vet records, but the Devil Breath experience was forever burned into my brain. While I’d escaped uninjured, my truck hadn’t been so lucky, and Laurie’s husband had ended up in the ER.

Laurie had 11 horses, including two rotten ponies. In addition to the long drive, trying to outsmart ponies, and juggling a variety of problems with the herd, there were six barn cats and four small dogs to attend to. A trip to Laurie’s was always a day-long adventure, and it was actually because of Laurie that I’d started keeping a well-stocked small animal pharmacy on my mobile vet truck.

Raining Cats & Dogs

On my most recent visit to Laurie’s, I’d done a lot of vet work on the herd and taken some X-rays of one of the ponies, who decided to kick me firmly in the shin. The other pony wasn’t getting vaccinated, as she’d knocked Laurie down and run away as fast as her fat little legs could carry her.

I was tired and sore, and I was glad to be cleaning up when Laurie announced that the dogs and cats needed shots. I sighed and set my dirty equipment down on the tailgate of the truck. One of these days I was going to start saying no to dog and cat work.

We set up on her back porch and got through all the dogs and the few cats that she could catch. It went very smoothly until we got to Devil Breath, a huge black barn cat.

Devil Breath was semi-feral on a good day, but he hated vets, and it was an art to get him safely vaccinated. I’d done a rapid exam and given the shots after speed-rolling Devil Breath in a towel. I wanted to watch him for a bit, so Laurie put him back into the carrier and set it in the shade.

My vet truck sat nearby, and the door to the vet unit was hanging open. As usual, I’d forgotten to close it, and my tailgate was a mess of dirty dental equipment and a used sheath-cleaning bucket with brown wads of cotton floating in the water.

A Foul Escape

Devil Breath was sulking in his carrier when Laurie’s husband saw him and exclaimed, “What did they do to you, Devil Breath?”

Suddenly, there was a clatter and a loud yell, and the husband stumbled into view clutching his arm and uttering expletives. Devil Breath shot past us, leaped onto my tailgate, knocked the sheath-cleaning bucket over, then disappeared into the depths of my open vet truck.

I watched in dismay as the foul water flowed into the truck, but soon realized that I had even worse problems, because Devil Breath was doing other things in there as the spilled sheath water pursued him. The smell of cat urine was overpowering.

Laurie gasped.

“Oh, Dr. Diehl! Your poor truck!”

I was more worried about her poor husband, who was now leaning against the house moaning, so I sent Laurie for some antiseptic.

I should have known better than to leave the vet truck open. They’re a magnet for barn and ranch cats, and over the years, I’d inadvertently stolen and safely returned several stowaways. I had learned a few tricks for de-catting my truck prior to leaving a farm, and confidently jumped behind the wheel.

I started the loud diesel engine, which is usually enough to scatter any hiding cats, then pumped the throttle a few times for good measure. Then I turned the truck uphill so the foul sheath water would drain from the vet unit, and I figured that Devil Breath would be long gone.

Except he wasn’t. I shined my flashlight into the unit, and disembodied eyes glared at me from the depths of the truck. When the smell of cat feces hit me, I realized that Devil Breath had engaged his entire arsenal, and that it was now officially war.

I yanked the unit’s sliding drawers out as far as they would go and began removing my equipment and supplies, stacking everything on Laurie’s deck. When the truck was empty, I opened the gull wing door on top of the unit, borrowed Laurie’s hose, and stuck it into the depths of the fouled vet unit. Then I turned it on full blast.

There was a muffled yowl, and Devil Breath shot from the back of the unit, followed by a flow of gross water and clumps of feces. I ran the hose for a good 10 minutes, removing all traces of the battle, then sprayed everything down with disinfectant and replaced my gear.

Laurie was preparing to take her husband to the hospital and had loaded the poor man into their little red Mazda. She rolled down her window as they drove past.

“Did you get him out?” she yelled.

I pointed in the direction of her barn. “Sorry about the mess in your yard.”

She shrugged.

“Well, at least he won’t poop in my barn!” Then she clapped her husband heartily on the shoulder as they drove off. “And Dr. Diehl gave him the rabies shot right before he bit you, so it’s your lucky day, dear.”

Returning to the Present

My phone squawked at me.

“Hello? Dr. Diehl, are you still there? The owner said Devil Breath might be difficult, do you have any recommendations?”

I snapped back to reality, and realized I was still on the phone with the vet clinic.

“A suit of armor, gauntlets, and a full-face shield should do it,” I said. “And nose plugs.”

The woman laughed merrily.

“Oh Dr. Diehl, you’re always so funny. We’ll keep our eyes peeled for those records.”

“You do that.” I told her. “I’ve retired from small animal practice.”

This edition of Vet Adventures appeared in the August 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: Barn Cat Showdown appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

“My wife goes to a sale to buy a harness and comes home with these instead!” He gestured for me to follow, as he walked over to a large stall and slid the heavy door open.

There were three emaciated young horses pressed against the far wall. I looked at Carl in astonishment.

“What’s happened here?”

Carl sighed loudly. “Well, someone dumped these youngsters at the sale lot, and my wife bought all three before anyone knew what was what. I only found out when she got ‘em home. And she forgot the dang harness!”

I took a step into the stall. “Are they handleable?”

Carl shrugged. “You now know as much as I do, Doc.”

Newly Named

I approached the young horses slowly, but they didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I ran a careful hand over their backs and ribs. They were skin and bones, filth matting their shaggy coats. They smelled like cow manure. I cringed and removed my hand quickly when I noticed an infestation of lice on their little bodies.

“Blossom, Buttercup and Bubbles,” said Carl, and I looked up in confusion.

“Their names, Doc! Don’t you watch TV?” (They were named after the main characters in late ‘90s/early ‘00s cartoon The Powerpuff Girls).

Celia had entered the barn and was striding briskly toward us, and I hunkered down and studied the group. “Well, Blossom here is all boy.” I announced. “The other two are fillies.”

Carl chuckled. “Well, that’s what I get for letting my wife go to a sale without me. A big dang mess and a colt named Blossom.”

Celia swatted him, greeted me quickly, then looked anxiously at her new charges. “Can they be saved?”

I was already pulling out my stethoscope. The little creatures allowed me to open their mouths, take temperatures, and palpate their starved bodies. They were about 8 months old.

Dire Situation

Blossom was in the worst shape. His head hung low, and he stared blankly as I moved my stethoscope over his scrawny rib cage. The other two weren’t much better off, and I silently cataloged the laundry list of problems: starved, internal and external parasites, heart murmur, dehydrated, possible infections, electrolyte imbalances, crackles in the lungs.

I tuned to Celia. “We’ve got our hands full, but let’s get started.”

I had Carl and Celia begin a careful refeeding program with grass hay so as not to overwhelm the babies with too much food. I drew blood on all three for testing and gave them an injection of a long-acting antibiotic. We treated the lice, and I started a cautious deworming treatment that would take several days to complete.

I knew the young horses would be riddled with internal parasites, and I didn’t dare deworm them with a full dose. Too much dewormer can cause an impaction of dead worms in the intestines, which can be fatal to a compromised young horse.

Long Road Ahead

Celia called the next day with a cheerful update on the number of dead worms she’d found in the manure, and I gave her a less cheerful update on the bloodwork. All three were showing signs of systemic disease and electrolyte imbalances. In addition, Blossom was severely dehydrated and had a low white blood cell count.

He was down in the stall when I arrived, and I placed a catheter in his jugular vein and started IV fluids with dextrose and vitamin B. When we finally hoisted him to his feet, he stretched, urinated, passed manure, shook himself, then meandered over to the hay and started eating.

Carl pushed his hat back on his head. “I figured he was a goner when I saw him down, but look at him now! There’s still some life in that colt, Doc.”

“He’s a fighter, but he’s got a long road ahead.” I warned.

Celia wiped her eyes. “The poor little souls. We’re going to do everything we can for them.” She fixed her husband with a stern look. “Aren’t we, Carl?”

Carl was tunelessly singing something about a Colt Named Blossom, and Celia looked at me hopelessly. “I’ll never live that one down, will I?”

Hard at Work

Blossom went down multiple times a day and had to be lifted to his feet each time. Sometimes I’d come and help, and the little colt would nose my face silently as we threaded thick straps around his belly and hoisted him up.

He would always stretch, pass manure, urinate, and start eating. Carl joked that the Colt Named Blossom was more stuck in his routine than an old man.

Each week, Blossom, Buttercup and Bubbles got stronger. One day Blossom nickered eagerly to me. The other two babies jostled around, demanding attention.

Sometimes Carl would be in the stall coaxing the dirt from their matted coats with a stiff brush, and Celia would be wiping straw and shavings from their eyes. They kept the stall immaculately clean and hung water buckets where the babies could reach them.

When the youngsters could tolerate more food, Carl would hustle back and forth with steaming bowls of mash, holding them up while the hungry babies ate and murmuring gently to them. He’d be so engrossed, he wouldn’t notice Celia and I snickering, then he’d huff about some people having to do all the work while other people just stood around.

Getting Back Up

The babies thrived under Carl and Celia’s loving care and began gaining weight. Their coats were clean and soft, and their eyes were bright and shining.

One day Celia called to tell me that Blossom had gotten up all by himself, and that Carl was in the stall jumping up and down, petting the little colt and crying.

“That husband of mine has stolen my horse!”

I laughed. “Carl’s going to tease you for years about his name.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine,” said Celia. “I’ll just jump up and down, pretend to pet the colt and cry loudly every single time that he does!”

This edition of Vet Adventures, “A Colt Named Blossom,” appeared in the July 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: A Colt Named Blossom appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

We suspected that “Doreen” (real name Wreath), a young bay Mustang mare, had been obtained through a Bureau of Land Management (BLM) program that provided financial incentives for adopting wild Mustangs. Unfortunately, adopters sometimes take the money and bring the horses to sale lots. Well-meaning horse rescuers try to buy the Mustangs before the meat buyers get them, but more than one has found themselves without the facilities and resources to feed, train and handle the wild horses, especially if they are injured or sick.

(Note: I had to use a pseudonym for Wreath in my earlier two columns, as she was on a court hold and the details had to be kept confidential. Now she has cleared the legal holds. In defense of the name, which always makes me think of “Wraith,” we were on a Christmas theme during that intake. You try naming 500 horses a year!)

The Background

Law enforcement had removed Wreath and eight other Mustangs from such a place when the overwhelmed rescuer agreed to surrender them.

All were in poor condition when they were delivered into our care, but poor, emaciated Wreath had a facial nerve injury that left her unable to eat hay normally. She was only 4 years old but looked closer to 20, and her hind limbs were slightly contracted from the malnutrition.

In our care, Wreath was started on soft wet mashes, and our starved, wild filly quickly became a cross between a food diva and Jaws. Wreath would lean into the barn aisle from her stall and rattle the door as hard as she could when she heard staff start scooping hay pellets and a special concentrated ration into her bucket. We quickly learned not to socialize with her when food was coming, as she wasn’t shy about headbutting the person who blocked her view of the preparations.

The mixture had to soak in the warm water until it crumbled to the touch, otherwise the hungry filly could bolt it too quickly and possibly choke. She’d dance in anticipation until a brave soul entered her stall, dodging Wreath’s efforts to dive into the bucket, and dumped the contents into a large trough. Wreath would lunge at the food, mouth wide open and drive her face deep into the mixture. She would jockey against herself for the best eating position, and her typical routine was to eat and dance, and eat and dance, until the tub was empty.

Slow Improvement

We slowly increased the amount and the frequency of her feedings, and I started her on a prescription vitamin E supplement to help heal the damaged facial nerve, and a product called Leg Aide to help her hind fetlocks, which had already improved dramatically.

The amount and the type of the vitamin E had to be exactly right, as horses cannot process excess vitamin E, and too much of any supplement can cause unpleasant side effects and lead to toxicity. The research on the E was very encouraging, and we all felt that the young Mustang deserved the best chance we could give her.

Wreath gained better control over her lips and muzzle, but still needed to improve to the point where she could live on hay alone. If we couldn’t find her an adopter willing to provide mashes multiple times a day, we still might have to consider euthanasia.

Nevertheless, we had to move her along in the rehabilitation process, and when I received an email from the staff telling me that Wreath had gained 120 pounds, she moved from the hospital barn to the lower barn, where she would begin to work with a trainer.

Time to Train

Our pretty young Mustang was a very quick learner. She mastered leading, tying, picking up her feet and working lightly on a longeline. As she continued to gain weight and muscle, she learned to carry a saddle and accept a bit and bridle.

Wreath was always provided hay along with her mashes, and I got a very excited phone call from her trainer one day to report that she was chewing and swallowing the hay almost normally. We were able to taper back on her mashes, and one day, she didn’t need them anymore.

Unfortunately, as things often go, the ranch had a massive intake of sick horses, and the horses in the training program had to take a short break. Wreath was turned out with some of the resident horses, and when I had time, I’d stop and enjoy watching her eat her hay. She was also weaned off her supplements.

Wreath was found limping one day, but was walking normally by the time I arrived. Judging by the behavior of one of the other pen residents towards Wreath, who was still very pushy, I diagnosed her with “schooled-by-older-mare-itis.” The two eventually worked out their differences, and soon Wreath returned to training.

Ready to Move On

It was a great day when I watched Wreath and her trainer effortlessly cantering around the arena. You could still see a slight left muzzle deviation if you looked closely, but the bay Mustang was more recognizable by the confident way she held her head and the shine in her eye.

I felt like I’d already known in my gut that this mare would make it, but it was still emotional. It was even more emotional for us when our beautiful mare finally became available for adoption and began meeting the public for the first time.

I’d love to end this column with a description of Wreath’s new family, and photos of her in her new home, but she hasn’t met them yet. Right now, it’s enough to know that she defied incredible odds and recovered completely.

But if we’re talking about gut feelings, I am certain that her family is out there, and that when they adopt this amazing young Mustang, they will love her and care for her forever. (And also change her name to something that doesn’t sound like “Wraith”!)

This final installment of Wreath’s high-altitude rescue story within Vet Adventures appeared in the June 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: High-Altitude Rescue, Part 3 appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.

Police radios blared, lights flashed from squad cars parked around the house, and a fourth police truck roared up the unplowed driveway. After the police served the warrant, we had a horrible time getting our huge trailer up the road and turning it around. The angry owner gestured furiously at us as we maneuvered the trailer around the junk and snowdrifts in the driveway, then backed it up to the gates of the back field.

A Sad Sight

An old bay mare with a large crescent star on her forehead stood a short distance away. I sadly studied her jutting ribs and prominent spine. Her hindquarters were atrophied, her winter coat coarse and dull, and her flanks were drawn up tightly. It seemed to take most of her strength to remain standing.

There were a few scattered, yellow hay piles, and the herd was jostling around them. The old girl tried to join the scrum at the nearest pile, but the horses just packed in tighter and wouldn’t let her in.

There were almost 30 horses in the herd, and it was obvious that the owner had only thrown hay out because they knew we were coming. There were several empty feeders on the property that were partially filled with snow, and it was clear that they hadn’t seen hay in a long time. Horses kept in these conditions should have feeders stuffed with free-choice hay, not occasional scant piles getting blown across the frozen valley.

The herd ranged from visibly underweight to emaciated, and I made a beeline for the only blanketed horse in the group. In my experience, the horses that we investigated in places like these were only blanketed to hide their awful condition. Sure enough, when I pulled the blanket off, the poor horse was nothing more than a skeleton with fur. I shook my head as I ran my hand over his sharp hip bones, then took some photos and put the blanket back in place.

The Mountain’s Challenge

My colleague was at the other end of the group snapping pictures and writing notes on a pad, and I shivered as the wind came screaming around the side of the old barn, pelting my face with tiny pieces of ice.

We were at an elevation of 9,200 feet in the Rocky Mountains, and there weren’t many trees to provide a windbreak. Immense snowy peaks loomed at the edge of the broad valley, and bands of sunlight illuminated the ice crystals in the wind.

Normally, those mountains delighted me. Every time I drove through this area, I’d have to pull over. I’d get out of my truck and just breathe the icy air and gaze at the silent behemoths, a trail of snow lifting from the mountains as the relentless wind tore at them. But today, they just seemed ominous. The wind screamed in the distance, and a few horses quickly lifted their heads from their sparse meal.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” my colleague promised them as she went to meet with the police officers. We had four more trailers waiting on the main road, and as soon as the officers had given us their blessing, we loaded the first group. The horses practically leapt into the insulated trailer, and soon we were headed back down the long driveway.

Within the hour, all the horses were safely loaded and we began our slow convoy back to the ranch. On a normal day, the drive would take about three hours, but today it would be more like five. The team chatted back and forth on the radio, making sure everyone stayed together, and I glanced back at the desolate property, growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The trailer rocked gently as the horses settled in for the ride, and I said a silent prayer for their safety on the long journey.

Road to Recovery

We reached the ranch safely, and the waiting staff opened the gates wide. Trailer after trailer backed up to the alley and deposited their charges, and soon the herd was gathered in a large round pen.

We moved them carefully through the chutes, where they were weighed and evaluated, then given ID tags and names as a medical record was completed for each one. Over 80 percent of the herd was in poor condition, and I was shocked to learn that the “old” bay mare that had caught my eye on the property was only 5 years old. We named her Doreen.

When the exams were completed, we moved the tired herd up to a large pen that had several loafing sheds and massive feeders brimming with fragrant green hay. There was a place for everyone at the feeders, and the hungry horses settled in quickly. The entire team leaned against the fence and watched the horses enjoying their hay. It was the best kind of therapy after a long, hard day.

Doreen found a place at the feeder too, and her head was so far down in the hay pile, I could hardly see her. I watched her for a long time, but she never lifted her head from the feeder, and I chuckled to myself. She was finally going to have some good food and hopefully would begin to gain weight soon.

Down and Out

Every time I checked on the herd, Doreen was always in the same position with her head buried in the feeder. I’d watch her for several long minutes, then move on, knowing that she was getting great care and high-quality feed.

About a week later, a staff member came into my office looking worried.

“Dr. Diehl, it’s Doreen. I was cleaning her pen today and I saw that she was dropping a lot of hay out of her mouth. I watched her for a while, and even tried hand-feeding her, but I don’t think she’s able to eat.”

To be continued …

This edition of Vet Adventures about a high-altitude rescue appeared in the April 2023 issue of Horse Illustrated magazine. Click here to subscribe!

The post Vet Adventures: High-Altitude Rescue, Part 1 appeared first on Horse Illustrated Magazine.