Shadow of Death and Sunrise

I bought Shadow 7 months ago, as a declaration of hope and faith that I had sufficiently recovered from the death of Caspian (a race horse) two years ago, to risk the investment, emotional and otherwise, in a horse again. I knew it was a big risk. I knew it was hard to keep horses alive in Ooty. (Explaining that comment would take another blog). I thought my heart had healed enough. I was ready to try again. I made sure Shadow was a super healthy, young horse, that didn't need rescuing as much as just a loving home. I wanted the risk to be as low as possible. But horses are impossible to predict.


On Sunday evening, September 27th, I could see the 3 ponies and Shadow playing in the field next to our house. Shadow and Orion were boxing and bucking, rearing and mock biting, just normal horsing around.

With darkness closing in, Rachael and Abbi rounded up the horses and took them down to the riding arena for grain and shelter. But Shadow wasn't interested in his bucket of bran and corn. Swinging his head around he looked at his stomach and then lay down and started rolling. Rachael and Abbi ran up to the house, besides themselves with worry. "Shadow isn't eating. He is sick." (my kids have seen too many sick horses not to panic at the first sign).

So began the next 12 hours of our anxious watchfulness, and Shadow's walk through the valley of death. At 8pm, while I constantly walked him in the drizzling rain and darkness, Greg drove half way to Coonoor (a town about 45 minutes from Ooty), and brought home three vets ( who happened to be visiting from England) to see what they could do. It was a severe case of colic. Many things were done; shots given, a tube pushed through his nose and water administered, but he did not respond.

A normal heart rate for a horse is 30-35 beats per minute. Shadow's was 60-65 beats per minute, twice what it should have been. I found out later vets call this a "death heart rate." Every few minutes

he would try to drop to the ground and we would stop him. By 12 pm, (after trying to intervene for four hours) the vets were shaking their heads saying they had done all they could for him. They believed he had a twisted intestine (possibly caused by the vigorous play on the hill side that evening.) There are documented cases of such unlikely occurrences, strange as it may sound.

They said, "Call us if he goes down and doesn't get back up, we will come up and euthanize him." With a lot more sympathy and warmth than that, of course. The vets helped us understand what was going on, and imparted a sense of calmness and professionalism to the scene. The painkillers they gave and the other drugs, certainly diminished the pain. Their authority steadied us, even though the prognosis was not hopeful at all.

Through it all, our friend Marc (taking a short break from his work in Afghanistan) was a constant, ministering angel bearing hot cups of steaming tea, taking turns around the yard prodding Shadow, and keeping us company. He and Greg kept the cold night vigil together. Its easier to bear up under the darkness with a friend. Friends sacrifice sleep. Husbands like Greg do too. If not for the horse's sake, then for his wife's.

Greg sent me to bed, and promised to watch over Shadow and keep him walking. I fell asleep much later, my heart almost paralysed with fear, praying for a miracle, and vowing to give up the horse therapy program if Shadow didn't make it. I found out later, that word had traveled and others around the world were praying with me.

But at 2am, Shadow finally lay down and refused to get up. He was completely peaceful and seemed asleep, so Greg didn't call the vets. He didn't seem to be in pain, but Greg was sure he was dying. Greg planned his burial site (one doesn't easily move a 800lb horse.)

Three hours later, at 5:30 am Shadow was still lying down and Greg needed a break badly. He left Shadow for five minutes. Upon returning, Greg couldn't believe his eyes. He raced into the bedroom to wake me up. "Mala get up and look out the window." My heart leapt at the sight. Instead of an agonized horse in tremendous pain, there was Shadow, calm and relaxed, grazing peacefully on the green lawn in the early morning sunrise. Isn't there a verse that says, "Hope comes in the morning"?

I saw all the vets again on Tuesday at the opening of the World Wide Veterinary Service, near Ooty. My good friend Ilona Otter is the director, and she is the one who sent her friends to help us out that rainy Sunday night. The vets all declared it was a miracle that Shadow was alive. They said that there was no medical explanation of how he had made it. Ilona said it was prayer.

Our hearts are full of gratefulness that God chose to spare Shadow and allow him to be a part of lives a while longer. The only bad thing? I am jealous since Shadow seems to like Greg more than me now.