Wild Animal - Trapped

I got up out of bed at about 2am, unable to sleep.  Settling into my overstuffed leather chair, feet on ottoman and blanket, watched the movie Juno (very good) then started Sundance Channel’s Spectacle: Elvis Costello with… (Norah Jones).  Not even a minute into the episode, shortly before 4am, I heard Lucy from the paddock sound the alarm that Jazzie was on the wrong side of the fence. Being one of the coldest nights of the year, I prepped before heading out the front door; winter sweats pulled on over my pajamas, down coat, hat, scarf and boots, a dog leash strung around my neck secured to the handle of a flashlight.  Yelling “Jazzie, Jazzie” and stopping in the garage to grab a bucket of treats, I saw her heading out of the driveway and heading down the road hoping to find grass to graze on in the neighbor’s yard.  I shook the bucket, continuing to yell for her until she finally acknowledged the easy-pickings and started working her way back to the driveway.  She was off the road and following me so I took off, clumsily running around the side of the barn, past the water trough, past the whinnying Lucy (to whom I tossed a flake of hay) through the heavy 2 feet of snow on the ground toward the gate into the paddock, which I knew was buried in snow. The last time Jazzie had escaped, I had struggled to open the gate with one hand while the other held a lead line.  Jazzie, attached to the other end, tried to help in her own way, pulling away, nudging me and laying her head on my shoulder. I had learned then that using both hands would definitely be a speedier process.  Just as I had the gate open, I heard a crash in the garage and ran back to see what trouble she had gotten herself into now and assess the damage.  I walked into the garage but she wasn’t there.  A crash like a shelf of books falling over made me turn to the small storage room past the hay

mound.  Jazzie was looking at me from well below my line of site, the eye-level I had planned on seeing her.  She was lying on the floor. Her weight had broken the floorboards and her back right leg had dropped between the rafters below all the way to her hip.  She was stuck, pinned on the floor, on her belly.  She looked up at me. She didn’t panic but gave me a confused, desperate and relieved-to-see-you look. 

The doorway to the storage room is framed in a wall that stands about 8 feet tall but slopes rapidly to a 3-foot height no more than 8 steps in.  She had probably hit her head shortly after entering the room, spun around, knocked into miscellaneous housewares and furniture and fell through the floor all in a matter of seconds. 

She had smashed two large panes of glass and the pieces surrounded her. I frantically picked up the shards I could see, moved the frames into the garage and grabbed any pieces of board and plywood I could find to cover the floor around her. I hung the flashlight on the wall aiming the light toward where the hole would be if I could see it.

She tried to get her feet under her and pull herself out to no avail.  She rested between her efforts and I gave her hay and treats, which she took with no hesitation.  Lucy meanwhile, made laps between the hay in the paddock and the other end of the barn where Jazzie and I were hanging out, whinnying both ways.

After about an hour of stressful attempts, her front legs breaking new holes in the floor as she stomped them down looking for footing, she rested.  I took a breath, we looked at eachother, I admitted to myself and to her, that we couldn’t do this on our own. I stepped outside the barn, shined my flashlight into the bedroom window and yelled for Michael.  The window slid open and I asked if he’d come and help.

We tried building a platform in the lower part of the barn below the leg dangling down from the ceiling so that she’d be able to get a foot-hold and lift herself out.  First with a ladder and boards propped between the stalls.  While I talked to Jazzie, rubbed her neck, “you’re a good girl”, Michael dropped a dozen or so bales of hay down to the lower level and placed them under the platform.  When she felt the boards beneath her, she would try to use them to lift herself enough to get her other legs underneath her, but boards would break and fly off the platform and when Michael was hit in the hand with a swinging hoof, that was enough for him.  “I have to use my hand for work”.

I decided to call Mark thinking that if he had some scaffolding, we could build a sturdy platform where our makeshift one was.  Frozen fingers aimed at the number pad on my phone, hitting the wrong keys over and over again, finally, getting through.

Mark took on the challenge and advised that he would find scaffolding somewhere and be out.

The flashlights eventually lost their light and even though the sun came up, the temperature remained around zero degrees. Michael and I were freezing, Lucy was whinnying through her laps, Jazzie was resting and we went in the house hoping to get the feeling back in our limbs.  I remember thinking that this was a horrible nightmare and there was still a chance that I would wake up.  After a minute, when I didn’t wake up, I headed back to the barn.  I cleared more boxes, bags, furniture and glass from the floor around Jazzie’s thousand pounds and stood with her for a while.

Laur called to ask how things were but Jazzie decided to make another try at disengaging herself from the hole and I had to hang up.  During the next few tries, I pulled her front end toward the door and had her front hoofs in the entryway so that when she eventually stood up, she could stand all the way up without hitting her head on the low ceiling.

Realizing that it would take Mark some time to find the scaffolding and make the 45 minute drive to Lafayette, when Jazzie laid down for her next nap, I left her to go wake up Rachel and Joe and ask them to help horse-sit until he arrived.

They bundled up and came out but were not thrilled at the sight or the task of trying to keep her calm; they didn’t want to go in the room; neither the floor nor the horse looked very safe. During her next few attempts, she managed to turn herself away from the door and was in the part of the room with the lowest headroom and beams where she would’ve liked to lay her head down.  Laur called again saying that Mark was on his way. Joe looked for boards to place around her and we dragged over a full mattress from the garage and placed it behind her as a cushion to lean on during her resting time.

We traded places between the warmth of the house and the barn where Jazzie was breathing hard but alternating between sleeping on her bed, eating and trying to lift herself.  Michael advised that he had to go to work. Mark arrived and quickly put himself to the task of building the scaffolding.  After it was built, he tried to place her foot on it while I coaxed her into trying to stand.  During multiple attempts, Mark was hit in the chest and sent flying off the scaffolding, had his arm pinned between her hoof and the platform and dislocated then relocated his finger (all of which Joe described to me later).

Finally, we decided we had to consider plan B, which didn’t exist. 

I went in the house to make calls, seeking someone who might have a plan B, but had no idea who to call.  My neighbor was a volunteer fireman and maybe could tell me if it was worth calling the fire department.  He gave me a non-emergency number and I called it and described my nightmare to the person who answered.

“Well, I’m not sure what we could do”, “I suppose I could send out the call and someone might respond……” and “Where did you get this number?”. He took my number in case someone wanted to call me back.

I hung up and called the large horse farm across the road. Mrs. Stanton, the matriarch of the farm and family answered and I repeated my nightmare.  She asked me to hold on while she translated to her husband and son.  My call-waiting chirped and I switched lines and there on the other end was the Lafayette Fire Chief saying “Well, I’m not sure what I can do”, “Maybe I’ll come out and take a look”.

I switched back to Mrs. Stanton who was saying “Kristin?  Kristin?”

She said she’d spoken with the guys and that they were heading over.  “They’ve lifted horses here but they were old horses”.

Meanwhile, Joe is running up the path from the barn and I grab my hat to meet him at the door and he says that Jazzie is trying to get up and is “almost there”.

She didn’t make it out and when I returned to the storage room, I found her completely exhausted.  Upon Mark’s next battle-cry from below of “Now!”, I pushed and pulled and yelled at Jazzie to get up but she had no effort, no energy to move.  I retreated from the charge and Jazzie laid her neck back on the mattress and fell asleep.  I think she dreamed of galloping in a field or parading down a main street.  

Don Stanton and two young men marched into the barn, straps in hand and quickly assessed the situation.  They wrapped the straps around her belly, dropping one end down the hole while Mark fed it back up the hole around her other side.  While they negotiated the straps, the fire chief and a volunteer fireman arrived along with Mr. Stanton.  While the chief stood back and watched, the volunteer offered his assistance and Don put him to work finding boards to cover the floor and more boards to place over the hole in anticipation of her leg coming out and needing something to stand on.

Don told everyone not to lift her but to keep her laying flat, while they grabbed her tail and the straps and pushed and pulled her around the hole to get in a better position for the eventual lift.  During the move, her dangling leg became wedged against the rafter and after a quick stop and reassessment by Don, they pushed her slightly back and asked Mark, from below, to pull her hock West, bend her leg, and out it came.

Don and his helpers are crouching under the 4 foot ceiling, straps in hand, I’m kneeling at Jazzie’s head, volunteer fireman is at her tail, and Jazzie is laying flat-out on her side with all four legs straight out on the floor.  While they are placing boards underneath her and over the hole, we assessed the blood and scrapes and Don felt her leg where it had become wedged.  “Oh no, I think it’s broken”.  Then he felt the same spot on her opposite leg and admitted “Wait a minute, if that one is broken then, they both are”. We all let out a sigh of relief.

While she remained laying down, they pulled her body around to an angle closer to the door and with a heave and a knicker, we got her to her feet and out the door into the garage.

The Stantons and I felt her legs, checked out the scrapes and decided that although she was cold from remaining in one spot for so long, she was good to go. 

Don rolled up his straps, commenting how much they’d been through and that they were worth their weight in gold, and they all marched out of to their vehicles.

I walked Jazzie down to the gate and led her around to the hay that Rachel had tossed in for her.  Quiet Lucy and uncomfortable Jazzie performed a ceremonial greeting of rubbing and nudging eachother and settled in for a meal.

Mark and Joe dismantled the scaffolding then came in the house for coffee.  After a few minutes of reminiscing, thawing and gulping coffee, Mark was off.  It was almost 11am.

A few minutes after Mark left, my limbs began to thaw and all the spots where I had bruises began to make themselves known and I considered how much worse Mark’s were going to be.

It was over.  Six hours, no broken bones and glass half-full; we didn’t make the evening news.

Before relaxing, I ran some fresh water for the dining girls and did a fence assessment.  I back-tracked the hoof prints in the snow to determine where she had escaped and found where she had pushed herself under the wire directly behind the pines in the backyard.  As there was no construction required, only branch and wire negotiation, and I knew she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, I went inside, curled up on the couch with Cula and slept for a couple of hours.

Jazzie was stiff and sore and I found that we were both moving at about the same pace that night. 

Photo Credit: Val Sivilli