NEWS
The two-legged "foal"
Posted: Saturday, March 30, 1996
A horse's vision is not much but the sense of smell is greatSomeone once did a survey and determined that most mares-something like 60% or 70%, I think it was-foal between 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. My practice does not bear this out, however. I have not compiled the statistics and I do not intend to, but I am pretty sure that at least half of the mares I have tended over the years have foaled between 3:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. and another 20% to 30%-bless them-deliver in the daytime or early evening.
I have had a few clients who called me for every foaling. I am an early riser anyhow so it never bothered me (much) and I got to charge for it, so I certainly did not discourage them from doing so. Most, however, call for only two reasons: 1) a problem, or 2) a mare carrying a particularly valuable foal.
One morning several years ago I received a call that was a combination of 1 and 2. A mare named The Queen's Boots was a stakes winner and stakes producer and was carrying a foal from the first crop of a former champion. The farm manager, hereinafter referred to as Bill, had told me he would call at the first signs of Bootsie's parturition. She was somewhere in the 340-to-345 day range, so I was expecting the call any day.
Mild dystocia
About 3:30 a.m. this late April morning in question, Bill called. "Bootsie's starting," he said, and I headed for the farm. It took me about a half-hour to get there and when I arrived Bill looked concerned. "She's down and straining," he said, "but nothing's coming."
I stuck my hand in her vagina about an inch and felt the unruptured placenta, but the pressure she was exerting was so great that I could not feel the foal itself to determine position. In response to my hand, Bootsie strained and pushed harder, expelling my hand and ballooning the placenta a few inches through her vulva. Then she got up.
"This has to go," I said, indicating the protruding placenta. Bill was holding her tail; I reached over, plucked the ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, and poked it into the bloated sack. (A ball-point works great for this purpose.)
The placenta ruptured, and then some. The amount of pressure within it caused by the mare's straining was suddenly released and placental fluid spewed everywhere-but mostly on Bill. I received some on me, but poor Bill got it full in the face and chest, drenching him. (I stuck the pen into the bag on the side away from me.)
Now able to determine what was amiss, I found that Bootsie's foal's head was coming ears first but luck allowed me to reposition it easily and the little guy popped on out. Bootsie was standing and Bill caught the foal-he was already a mess so a little more juice would not matter-and eased it down to the stall floor.
Mistaken identity
The night watchman was holding Boots and he turned her around so she could see what was going on. Bill and I were attending to her foal-it was a colt-and she stuck her head down to see what she had, but only got as far as Bill.
This was the scent she was looking for! She nuzzled him, she nickered to him. She licked him.
He pushed her away but she came right back. She started to paw at him but the guy with the shank pulled her away. This upset her. She jerked him back to Bill and nuzzled and nickered some more.
We finished working on and checking the foal and stepped away from him, knowing that Bootsie would recognize her error when she saw him. But she did not. She ignored the colt and went to Bill.
"Let's leave the stall," I suggested, "so she can figure out what she has."
We stepped out of the stall and Boots became frantic. She whinnied and ran around in circles. Bill had to go back in before she hurt her foal.
He was a vigorous colt and by this time he was trying to stand. Bill said, "Let's see if we can get him up and nursing. Maybe then she'll understand which one of us is hers."
While Bill kept Boots occupied-an easy task as all he had to do was stand there and let her adore him-the night man and I helped her colt up. It took us several attempts but on the fourth or fifth try he stayed up. We left him alone for a few minutes while he gathered up his coordination.
In the meantime, Boots was trying to push Bill toward her rump. She had evidently decided it was time for him to nurse.
Okay, we figured, she wants to nurse a foal. We will give her one. I guided the colt back along her side and tried to aim his head in the general direction of a nipple. He was making sucking motions with his mouth, so he was ready. But as soon as he touched her, she fired. She did not want this alien nursing her. Her "foal" was right there in front of her, standing there on his own two legs.
"Let me do that," Bill said to me. The night man took the mare's head and Bill took over the guidance of the foal. She liked this. With Bill back there, she allowed the foal to be maneuvered until at last he had a nipple and nursed. After making sure he was going to stay attached, Bill stepped away from him toward Bootsie's head.
She either saw or smelled him there and realized if he was there, then it could not be him back there nursing. She jerked away from the foal's grasp of her nipple and kicked again. Fortunately, the colt had lost his balance and fallen down when she jerked away, otherwise she probably would have injured him badly, or worse.
We tried it a couple more times and as long as she thought it was Bill who was nursing she was fine. Now Bootsie was not a silly young mare. This was her fifth or sixth foal and she had never had a problem accepting any if them. She had been a good, protective mother, an excellent mother, each time. She had never wanted Bill-or any other person-to be hers, but then no one else had ever smelled like a newborn foal.
We-or Bill-could not leave the stall. We could not leave her alone with her foal. We took the foal from the stall-she did not bat an eye-and I tranquilized her. I told Bill to go to the house and shower well and change everything he had on, from cap to shoes.
Even though Boots was wobbly from the tranquilizer and could not hold her head up, she nickered and whinnied when Bill left the stall but the chemicals kept her from getting too worked up. Meanwhile, her real foal was not very happy. From the next stall, he squealed and bounced around.
A successful weaning
Bill returned in about 30 minutes, squeaky clean. He had used his daughter's scented soap and splashed on an abundance of high-powered cologne. Indeed, he smelled not unlike a flower shop and nothing like a horse of any age.
With him, he brought a plastic trash bag. "It's the shirt I had on," he explained. He went in the stall with the foal and rubbed the soiled clothes over the colt's back. The night man led the still-wobbly mare over to the foal's stall. The colt was glad to see her but she was noncommittal. Bill assisted the colt to a faucet and as the night man held the mare firmly, ready to react should she try to injure the baby, Bill backed away.
Boots was waking up a little now. Bill came over to where I was standing, easily within Bootsie's fields of vision and smell. She looked toward us but made no sound or no attempt to kick. After perhaps 30 seconds, the foal stopped nursing, walked to the other end of the stall, and lay down. Boots moved toward him and the night man allowed her to walk over, but he was still prepared to stop her from doing anything we did not want. She sniffed her foal and nuzzled him and then she, too, lay down. The foal was more than two hours old now and this was the first time that Boots had attempted to go down since she delivered him.
She lay there and rocked back and forth a few times, then became very still for several minutes. Then the colt teetered back to his feet and came over to her. She got up, shook the bedding off, and stood quietly as he nursed again. Bill was evidently weaned.
The colt grew well, sold well, and trained well, but Bill turned out to be sounder and probably just as fast.
Brent Kelley, DVM, is a practicing veterinarian living in Paris, Kentucky.
