“Record low temperatures,” the TV newsman blared out. I pulled on my boots and grabbed another jacket. Foxy wasn’t due for another month, but with the barometric pressure crash, I feared she might foal early. I knew that animals are just as sensitive to the barometric pressure as humans are. It can aggravate arthritis and even cause a baby to come too early.
I gathered my gloves, headlamp, flashlight, and truck keys. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door. A blast of arctic air pummeled me. Howling wind whipped the Colorado snow with blinding force. I put my head down and marched into the wind.
All the mares were in the barn, but, just as I feared, Foxy was off by herself at the back. Something was wrong. I grabbed a halter and a bucket of grain and dropped small handfuls in each feed tub to keep the other mares away from Foxy. When I saw the small, seemingly lifeless body lying in the dirt, my heart leaped to my throat. Everything in me feared that I was too late. The little guy was a mass of blood and matted manure. It was a hideous sight.
I rushed to Foxy’s side and haltered her. Then I knelt to see if there was any hope for the tiny foal. He was damp and cold—too cold. But he had a heartbeat and was breathing. Barely.
I pulled off my outer jacket and wrapped the newborn foal in it. I wouldn’t be wearing this jacket again, but it would be worth the loss if I could save the little guy. I picked him up. Being a month early, he was far lighter than he should have been. I rushed toward the gate and threw it open.
Foxy followed behind, softly nickering to her near lifeless baby. My heart went out to her as I carried her little one to a nearby foaling stall I had prepared for a different mare. I gently laid him on the fresh pine shavings. The clean scent of pine gave me hope. Foxy stood over him as I tried to figure out how to rub the foal dry and get him warm. I needed towels. While rubbing the foal with one hand, I dug into my coat pocket for my phone with the other, praying for enough service to call out.
Thankfully the phone rang, and I heard John say hello. John was the neighbor boy who came and helped me around the place and fed the horses for me when I went out of town. He was sixteen, big and strong, and would do anything to help me.
“I’m at the barn,” I said. “Can you please grab as many rags as you can and come help me with a foal?”
“Did you say bring rags?”
“Yes, please. And hurry!”
“I’ll be right there.”
I had the foal as clean as my jacket would get him, but he was still soaking wet and needed more help. Five minutes later, John’s headlights flickered across the barn walls. He ran toward me with an armload of rags and towels and dropped them at my feet. “Dad said to call if we need him, and Mom said not to worry about the towels. They’re old.”
I picked up a rag and started rubbing. “We need to save this little guy. He’s terribly cold, and he’s a month too early. But I think we can get him warm enough.”
John and I worked, feverishly rubbing the little foal, but his mouth was still ice-cold, which is a terrible sign. I didn’t mention that fact to John because with every wipe of the towel, the teenager drew closer and closer to the foal. He was quickly invested in what he was doing. I heard him speaking tender words to the little one, and I felt in my heart that John was growing attached to him.
When the foal was finally dry, John and I were both exhausted. We sat silent in the fluffy shavings with the foal’s head in my lap and his hips and hind legs in John’s. John’s hands caressed the little foal as if he could rub life back into him. I wanted so much for this little foal to live, but his closed eyes were not moving. The only sounds were the tiny tinkling of snow hitting the tin roof and the occasional shuffle of the other horses.
My hand was on the foal’s ribs. They were still, too still, and there was no heartbeat. I didn’t say anything to John, but the tears in his eyes told me he already knew. It was too late. It looked like there would be no chance for the little guy.
I broke the silence. “Let’s pray for him.”
John looked up. “Seriously? For a horse?”
I nodded. “It says in the Bible that not a sparrow falls that the Lord does not see. So yes, for a horse.”
He shrugged. “Ooookay.”
We bowed our heads and I said, “Dear Father in heaven, you and I both know this little foal is not gonna make it without your touch. You say that not a sparrow falls that you don’t see. So we ask that you heal this little foal.”
Nothing. Still no breath.
I looked back at John. “Would you like to pray for him?”
He shook his head. “I’m not very good at praying.”
“Just say what you feel in your heart.”
John looked uncertain, but he began, “Dear Jesus, please save this baby horse. Amen.”
As soon as John said, “Amen,” the foal took several deep gasps. John’s eyes grew large. He looked at me and whispered, “Did you see that?”
I wasn’t sure what I saw. Perhaps these were death sounds. But the foal gasped again. I stuck my finger in his mouth and felt warmth come back. A moment later the foal opened his eyes and nickered.
Foxy stepped forward and nuzzled her baby. In a few minutes the little foal was trying to get up. We helped him, and then guided him to his momma’s milk. Thirty minutes later, our little miracle stood there on wobbly legs, looking at us all through big, bright, totally healthy eyes.
John and I walked out of the barn, both of us very grateful. A little foal lived. And John had learned how to pray!