It has been over a week now, since I received an urgent summons to hasten to this small farmette west of Bree-town and assist in what turned out to be a terribly difficult birth of a foal. As I attempt to think back and clear my head during this first, welcome lull in my duties, I do not think I have mentioned the name of Mister Wilford before. I was introduced to him during my earliest days in Bree-land, while working for that figure which I would rather leave unnamed at this point. Mister Wilford proved to be a very pleasant and solid Breeish fellow, with a small herd of his own, and during my time here (has it really been nearly two years?) has asked for my advice on quite a few occasions. This time, however, I was needed in person, as his best broodmare was in labor and clearly struggling, and he feared he might lose both her and her unborn.
Jack bore me with great haste, and I barely had time to scribble a note and fasten it to my front door, explaining my absence, before hurrying off into the night. We arrived at the farm around midnight, and found the mare pacing about her stall, and moaning in great discomfort. Mister Wilford begged me to help her, and I could see the desperation in his eyes, as these animals are not merely useful to him and his family, but provide their livelihood.
He held her at the head to calm her, and I spoke quietly to her, stroking her trembling sides before approaching her backside. Upon internal inspection, I felt the two forelegs, but no head, which meant it was twisted backwards. I will not detail the following moments, but the effort to reposition the little one's head took nearly an hour, and by the end, Mister Wilford and I were both exhausted. And the mare, though I daresay she wouldn't have thanked me, was able to deliver her foal.
Unfortunately, as we stayed close to monitor the new mama and her baby, it became clear that the foal was not quite as it should be. Half an hour passed, and the little one (a girl!) had not stood. Then an hour. When it became nearly two hours, we agreed that it was time to intervene, and by the light of a flickering lantern, we began taking turns helping the filly to her feet so she could nurse. Her legs seemed strong, and no bones seemed out of place or damaged from the difficult birth, but as soon as we took our hands away, she would crumple back into the straw and just look at us.
I have seen a few "dumb foals" before (a terrible term, I agree!). There is nothing particularly wrong with them, and with enough time and help, they do overcome their obstacles, though a person or people must be on hand to help them nurse regularly. It is exhausting work, but I immediately told Mister Wilford that I would remain until the filly had found her legs, so to speak.
And so, I have had very little sleep, not enough to eat (though not because Missus Wilford hasn't offered, she has been most gracious in bringing food to the stable round the clock), and I know I must stink to high heaven of sweat and horse and manure and everything else. But, last evening, the foal (which they named Winifred or "Winnie", very clever, I must say) finally decided that she knew what her legs were for, and she began standing on her own.
I long to go home, to sleep in my own bed, and to take a very, very long bath. But my hosts have insisted that I take one more night to rest here before departing. I asked for some spare parchment to send a message back to Hookworth, and I am selfishly using this last bit to write this diary. I suppose a piece of paper is fair payment for saving a life or two?
I pray all is well in my home village. As tired and grubby as I am now, I am so thankful for a life which allows me to work and to help in ways that are so meaningful and satisfying. And that I have a home to return to, peaceful and quaint, with friends nearby. And that summer is only just beginning, and I intend to spend it beside the ones who mean the most to me, savoring the simplest pleasures that life has to offer someone of such little significance. I am no one of consequence, and never will be.
