Page 106 of High Intensity

“How long has she been like this?”

Lucy blows a long strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

“She didn’t eat today, and she looked restless this afternoon, so I came back to check on her after dinner and she was in obvious pain, which is when I called you. I tried to get her to drink, walked her around a bit in the meantime, and was just about to try some water again when she plopped down like this.”

I do a quick check for dehydration by pressing on her gums to see how long it takes for the small capillaries to refill.

“She’s definitely dehydrated,” I confirm, just as Bo walks into the stall with a long cargo strap. “That’s perfect. Let’s double it up and slide it under her hips.”

It takes a bit of doing, but we manage.

“Lucy, if you grab both sides of her halter and pull at the same time. On three. One, two…”

On three, I put all of my one-hundred-and-ninety-two pounds into the effort. This is one of those rare times where I’m grateful to be of a more hefty variety. I’m not short at five foot eight, and the pounds are distributed well on my body, but I’m well aware there are quite a few too many of them.

Luckily because of the work I do, I am fit and strong, and I eat pretty healthy most of the time. Still, whenever I’m weighed at my doctor’s office, I am sternly reminded that at my age it wouldn’t take much to slip from simply overweight into obese territory.

God, how I dread that stupid BMI scale. How can you use one single standard for the endless variety of human beings there are? It’s numbers, and they don’t take into account genetics, metabolic speed, health issues, mobility, and I could list an endless number of more individual circumstances that should to be taken into account when looking at what constitutes a healthy weight for a particular individual.

And that’s not even the worst part; any health complaints you might have are so readily linked to that number on the scale. We’re supposed to believe that losing weight is the be-all end-all of every conceivable ailment.

I call bullshit. I’ve never been a small girl, I grew up on a ranch, was put to work from the time I was seven- or eight-years-old, and am generally fit as a fiddle. I’ve always been comfortable in my skin, and I’m not about to let some arbitrary number on a scale invented by some random Belgian mathematician, for Pete’s sake. The man wasn’t even a physician.

“Good girl, Starla. Good girl.” Lucy soothes the horse when we have her standing on trembling legs.

Now that she’s standing, it’s easier for me to listen to her gut sounds. There appears to be some increased activity.

“I’m going to do a quick rectal exam, and after that I’ll probably use a nasogastric tube to see if there is a buildup of fluids in her stomach. Are you’re okay with me giving a sedative now? Spare her any more discomfort?”

I prefer getting consent before administering any medications, especially sedatives or anesthetics, because they always come with risks.

“Whatever you need to do, Doc.”

Once the sedation starts taking effect, I quickly don a disposable long-sleeve glove with shoulder protection, and set to the fun task of rooting around the poor animal’s gut.

“I can feel an impaction,” I report, retrieving my arm and disposing of the glove.

Luckily, there is not fluid build up in her stomach, but I leave the tube in to hydrate her. With the help of the portable ultrasound, I confirm there isn’t anything else going on aside from the impacted stool she has trouble moving.

The fluids will help, as will the pain medication I give her, and after waiting to see the first signs of improvement, I leave Starla in Lucy’s good care. Nature will have to take its course.

Bo walks me to my truck.

“Thanks for coming out, Doc.”

“No problem. Call me if there’s any change for the worse. I’ll check in tomorrow to see how she is.”

I smile and wave as I pull away from the barn, but as soon as I’m out of sight, I grimace with hunger pains. My stomach feels like it’s eating itself.

Rather than driving all the way home to get to my leftover lasagna, I pull into the first place I come across that I know has food; Foxy’s Bar. It’s less than two miles from the rescue. I’ve grabbed something here once before, so I know it promises greasy bar food.

Just what the doctor ordered.

It’s not crazy busy, just a couple of bikers sitting at the bar, a few locals playing pool, and only two tables occupied with families.

“Find yourself a spot,” I’m told by a waitress toting a tray full of drinks to one of the tables.

I grab a table near the back. I’m not up for socializing and plan to dine and dash; I’m exhausted.

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