Yay, number 13!  Five more after this guy!  Props to those of you who have steadily posted and stuck along - I feel like this was a tad bit more than my list-making self had anticipated.  I'm sure crippled pony has nothing to do with that.

A photo posted by bekaburke (@bekaburke) on Aug 25, 2014 at 10:30am PDT

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I walked him around for about ten minutes and then cold hosed him for about ten minutes.  Shoved bute and carrots in his face and hovered over him to make sure he ate his dinner plus antibiotics plus beer.



This morning, my body grudgingly got up at our "normal" time.  It wasn't early enough to do as much as I wanted, but I shoved more bute in his face, walked him in a large figure-8, cold hosed for about ten minutes and left him to his breakfast.

I remind myself, as I have throughout this entire process when my confidence in life starts to wane, that horse ownership is a luxury.  Owning Archie is one of the best decisions I ever made and being the person to care for him now is a privilege.

My vet requested a photo of The Kick a week after our last recheck. I sent him this one that I took last night, along with my notes.

I swear to all that is pony and magical that this is purely coincidental.  I wrote out what all the topics would be and when they would be long before Archie got kicked.  And sent copies to Hill and L to get their opinions, because they are my not-so-secret blogging besties. But here we are:


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Oh, yes, worth the caps:  TWO WEEKS.

Vet came out yesterday to do the barn.  It was the first time that I think so many of us were there and not really riding.  I got there a little early, but waited my turn.  I played photographer.



Not the best photo, but the end results are fucking great:  vet says that between a week and a half to two weeks, we can stop wrapping and start riding.

Are you shitting me?  For real?

And then it was time to do his teefers!

Hey, doctor vet man!

I made a mistake.

A big mistake!

I asked my husband the other day what color my hair is.  Surprisingly, he popped out with my own words:  dead mouse brown.

 So here are the details on the leg:  last Wednesday, when I was pretty much at my wits' end, Archie's leg was swollen, painful, and draining from a random point away from the actual cut.  I was pretty much acknowledging that surgery was imminent.  And then Friday,  I had my horse back.

In talking to the vet about it, we figure that the leg did whatever it was going to do to resolve itself.  I asked about radiographs, but the vet said that if the sequestrum were absorbed, we would only see a demineralization.  And if the bone were spat out, we would still just see a hollow.  I owe the vet a photo in a week, but we think the leg is done.  Archie certainly is.  The little shit ran off last night when I was changing his wraps.

A photo posted by bekaburke (@bekaburke) on Nov 16, 2013 at 12:02pm PST

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We have our next recheck on Monday.  To say that I am excited is an understatement.  I'm tired of waiting - at this point, I borderline don't give a fuck if we have to do surgery, so long as we're taking a step in some direction.  Borderline because I still totally and vehemently don't want to slice into Pony's leg.

Nope.

I think I've handled this little snafu pretty well.  Mostly.  I find a direct correlation between his willingness to participate in bandage or wrap changes and my mood for the rest of the day/night.  Willing Archie?  Happy Beka.  Painful Archie?  Crying Beka.  I've joked that he does the world's slowest cow kick, but trying to put a bandage on a leg that is either touching his stomach or three feet behind him makes the situation a little less amusing.  When able, I recruit help by means of pushing the old man's butt over so he's forced to put weight on the leg.

I think the moral of the story is that we are both completely over this.

Nope nope.

Grocery shopping for carrots and a pizza pick-me-up, I ran into my BO.  He's been really good about asking about "our old man" when he sees me and he always tries to give me uplifting words.  I appreciate it.  This time, the words were about what an inspiration I am.  How most boarders are out for ninety minutes on Saturday, but here I am, leaving tracks in the grass when I park next to the barn in the morning.  (Seriously, I fucked up the grass.  There's a dead patch.  I apologized, but he just told me not to do any doughnuts where people could see me.)  He talked about how dedicated I've been for the last six weeks and then I had to correct him.  T E N .  Yeah.  S'okay.  I don't remember much of the first month, either.  And then I said I'd kill to be a Saturday morning 90-minuter.

(Thinking about the start of our tenth week made me think of Karen's vet's projection that it would take Izzy's comparable injury ten weeks or so to resolve.  If you haven't seen this, go check out another beautiful bay with another ginormous laceration on his left hind.)

Anyways, he told me that he would bury another penny for us.  I've never heard the expression before, but I'm touched by the sentiment.  Here's hoping Monday brings us some good news.

I edited out my brother.  But I'm not talking defensively to myself.

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