I knew it stirred. Deep inside.
Restless, hormonal, and irritated, my mare’s pleasant attitude plummeted. My heart soared.
(Actually, her baby.)
There was a tiny foal in there last year, but she lost it.
My heart belonged to that baby. My expectations, my fears, the challenges ahead–I plunged forward, until–
Today, the veterinarians examined Melody, and concluded that her breeding didn’t take. Again.
All my life, I’ve dreamed of breeding my own foal. My own. From the moment it’s conceived to its last aged breath.
I want it. I ache for it.
This weekend, the head of Repro at MSU will take a uterine biopsy from Melody to see if she can become pregnant.
And if she can keep the baby to term.
Maybe it’s asking too much for a sweet little foal to run around our farm, bucking and playing and snorting and falling asleep on a soft bed of spring grass.
The foal would nicker at me and gently nudge me to say, “More sugar! Now!” and lick her lips and lick the salt from my hand.
Until then, the stallion owner has kindly worked to “talk me off the ledge”–that moment of hysteria where I imagine I’m falling into a deep abyss of never-getting-my-dream-baby. Of feeling the despair of a thousand near-misses.
We need one hit.
To return my pleasant mare into the restless, hormonal, irritated, pregnant beast.
My heart will soar again.