My Story: Losing Raindrop

By Ric Chapman

From Reader's Digest Magazine

What should have been a joyous reunion ended in a final farewell.

My young son and I had driven down to the farm to visit our horse Raindrop, who had just become a mother. The sun was shining and we were in good spirits as we headed to the paddock. Then we saw her: lying on the ground, next to her foal.

As we approached, I watched her rise slowly, on shaky legs, her body convulsing in pain: she was shaking from shock. Her baby, a strapping young colt, stood by her side, bewildered, just as I was, at the sight of his mother in distress. He was not yet three weeks old.

It was obvious she was in great pain. Hungry and confused, her young foal tried to feed, but Raindrop simply couldn’t produce the milk. Despite the pain, though, she tried, and it was a scene as devastating as it was touching to watch.

Then I noticed the deep lacerations on her head. They were only a few hours old. The terrible pain she was feeling was so bad, it had caused her to violently thrash against the fence. More than likely, she’d been suffering for days.

Horses are like that. They hide their pain and discomfort as well as they can, especially if they have a little one to care for. And my mare was a phenomenal mum.

She cared for her babies like Mother Teresa cared for mankind. So when farm manager Andrew Russell ran at full throttle 200m back towards the truck, I sensed the urgency of the situation. He spun the truck around and sped towards the barn to get some painkillers.

I stayed with Raindrop, patting her head and trying to comfort her, my six-year-old son Zac at my side, painfully aware that the grown-ups had turned from being happy blokes to men reacting in haste under pressure. For reasons I don’t understand, he reached up to the young colt. In its distress and confusion, the colt stood there, letting Zac’s tiny hand pat his tiny nose. Flighty baby colts normally do not allow such transactions.

In much the same way, Raindrop stood there too, shaking, trembling and sweating, but content to allow the petting. She knew we were there to help.

Raindrop had always been my pride and joy. She was the first racehorse I ever bought. She only ever raced in the bush, but she managed to win a few times. The most memorable was at Quirindi in NSW. I punched the air that day, my joy immeasurable. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Of course, that was before she retired and started having babies.

Now she was dying. And I was about to witness that, too. This time, I kicked the ground, hung my head and cried.

Finally Andrew roared back. He bolted across the paddock, his legs unused to sprinting so far so fast. He gave her an injection of painkillers and hoped it would settle her until the vet arrived. Then he led her by the collar, walking her slowly out of the paddock, her little boy by her side, and mine with me.

When the vet arrived 20 minutes later, he immediately set about finding out the problem.

"It may be a twisted bowel; I can’t tell at this stage." He paused. "But it may also be a rupture. We need to get her into surgery."

What a horrible turn to what started off a happy, wonderful trip up the highway to look at our brand-new baby horse.

Then he floored me with his next question. "Is she insured?" he asked.

I shook my head. She wasn’t, but that wasn’t the reason the tears welled up. I knew a vet wouldn’t ask something like that unless he knew there was a major problem.

We rushed Raindrop and her colt to the nearest animal hospital. Once there, the colt was sedated and taken to his own stall to shield him from what was about to happen.

My brave mare was anaesthetised, her legs tied together, and lifted unconscious onto the operating table by a crane. An endotracheal tube was placed into her larynx, then into her trachea, to allow the passage of both oxygen and the gas anaesthetic.

"I can’t give her the full amount of anaesthetic," explained the vet. "Her heart rate is up and her blood pressure is too far down."

Her belly was shaved, cleaned, antiseptic was applied, and then the incision made. I could only pat her upturned jowl. A catheter for the IV fluids to control the shock was put into place in her neck. Her eyes were glassy and open. I kept patting and looking into her eye, noting every now and then it moved slightly. I think she knew we were trying to help.

Within 20 seconds of going in, the vet looked over to me and said quietly, "Ric, you need to see this."

I hadn’t looked until then, but I went to her belly. He showed me the chaff floating in her body.

"My worst fear has just been realised," he said. "She has a ruptured bowel and there is nothing anyone can do. It’s time to let her go."

Still in shock, I slowly nodded, giving him permission to euthanase her. Then I walked out of the operating theatre to my son. He’d been sitting in the waiting room for the entire time, playing his Game Boy. We hugged each other and he gently asked,

"Is she dead, Daddy?"

I hugged him close so he couldn’t see what was happening to me.

"Yes, darling," I said. "She’s gone now."

Then I turned my attention to another little boy. I might not have been able to save Raindrop, but I was determined to do everything in my power to save her colt.

Two hours and many phone calls later, I found a nanny for my lonely little colt, a lactating Clydesdale at a nearby farm. That night, the colt and his new "mum" were introduced; I was ecstatic to discover that, by the next morning, he was curled up asleep next to her, his belly as fat as a baby’s can be. She, too, seemed happy to be feeding him and I’m confident she will rear him into a hulking young weanling. I certainly hope so because there’s no doubt: the pain of losing a horse is the hardest thing to bear.

Ric Chapman, 46, is a horse breeder who lives in Jannali, NSW, with his wife Janet and sons Jacob, aged seven, and Zac, six. In his spare time he swims and plays soccer.