Page 6 of High Density

The poor mare is grunting, her eyes are wild and every muscle in her body is trembling. She’s in obvious distress.

Over her head I catch Alex walking into the barn.

“Morning,” she greets.

“I’m going to try and move the second leg back,” Doc announces without bothering to return pleasantries. “But I can’t have her moving on me or I could damage her uterus. JD, I need you to brace her against the wall and use your body weight to keep her there, but glove up first, because as soon as I have the leg back, I need your help getting this baby out. Alex, if you’ll take her head and keep it still.”

The urgency in her voice has us jumping into action, and the next ten minutes it’s all-hands-on-deck. I end up on my ass in the stall, the slippery foal between my legs as I rub her roughly with handfuls of straw to stimulate her to breathe.

“How is she doing?” Doc asks, as she keeps a close eye on the mare, who is barely able to stay on her legs.

“Nothing yet,” I report.

“Clean her nose, keep one nostril covered and blow puffs in the other,” she orders. “We need to get some air in those lungs.”

“I can do it,” Alex offers, but I wave her off.

“I’ve got this.”

I whip my shirt over my head, wipe as much of the mess off the foal’s nose as I can, cover one nostril, and fit my mouth over the other. I’m really gonna need that coffee after this.

“Easy puffs,” Doc warns. “Watch her chest move.”

It only ends up taking a few before the little foal takes over breathing by herself.

“Good job.”

When I look up at Janey, she’s wearing a big smile aimed at me. Fuck if that doesn’t make me feel like a million bucks. Worth the ruined shirt and the mouthful of gunk.

“Now I’m going to need some help back here again. Poor mom has a prolapsed uterus we need to get back into place.”

Making sure the foal is okay by herself, I get to my feet and toss my dirty shirt on the other side of the stall door. Then I go see what Doc wants me to do.

“I need you to keep this elevated while I get things ready. We can’t let it hang down, or it could cause tearing.” She’s holding up a substantial mass of bloody tissue in her hands. “But first wash your hands. Then grab one of the green sterile sheets from the bottom of my kit and bring it to me.”

As I’m washing up at the sink, Bo comes strolling in. He stops in his tracks when he catches sight of me.

“Whoa.”

“Not mine,” I assure him when I see him scanning my body for injury. “Sunny had a messy delivery.”

“You don’t say. Giving Doc a hand, are ya? Flashing some skin in the process?”

Bo is our resident comedian. A good guy, but he sure loves to poke fun at people.

“Shut up and wash your hands,” I grumble, bending over to rummage through Doc’s bag for the sterile sheet. “You can give us a hand.”

Bo—a former surgical nurse—does as asked. “Poor baby’s got a prolapse,” he establishes when he pokes his head into the stall. “Morning, ladies.”

Armed with the green sheet, I motion for Bo to stand on Doc’s other side, before reaching between her and the horse’s back end to hand Bo two corners of the sheet. Holding on to my own two corners, we lift the sheet like a hammock underneath the inverted uterus Doc is holding.

“Perfect,” she mumbles, when she’s able to remove her hands.

“What did she have?” Bo asks, while Doc gets herself cleaned up.

“Little filly,” Alex fills him in.

“Pretty markings,” he points out.

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