Last Wednesday was a wonderful day. The footing was still a little muddy, but aside from that, it was an ideal hunting day. We covered a lot of ground, and ventured into some country we don’t hunt often enough. We didn’t jump much, but when we did, Arthur’s form was impeccable. Life was good. But later events have left me wondering whether I committed a grievous sin.
The only downside to the day was the absence of the Bitch Pack. Earlier weather forecasts had made Wednesday hunting look out of the question, inducing the powers to declare a bye day on Tuesday. Anybody who was able made what looked like the sensible choice at that point and went out Tuesday. I was at work cursing my luck at having a loose shoe and not enough notice to get it put back on.
Tuesday night, I got home to find Arthur’s shoes had been reset, and no phone message about the cancellation of Wednesday’s hunt. Wednesday morning, I awoke to find that the predicted overnight rain had not occurred, and the predicted morning rain was obviously not happening, and hunting was apparently on. So away we went.
We ended up with a field of three, following a huntsman and two whips. And, although I didn’t realize it at the time, that may have been the beginning of my undoing.
As the other two were not Bourbon drinkers, I realized there was no way I could finish my flask by myself. So I elected not to open it at all, settling instead for Jane’s flask of port which was sufficient for the three of us. I realize that ordinarily it’s a sin to dismount before finishing all flasks, but I thought maybe a flask which had not been opened at all was not subject to the commandment.
The next morning, Arthur seemed a little down and didn’t eat all his grain. Since all other signs seemed OK, I opted not to panic right away. When Saturday arrived, he still seemed a little blue, but I thought a good hunt would perk him up, so we headed out.
As soon as I mounted, it was obvious I was not riding the same horse I had ridden on Wednesday. I still held onto faint hope that maybe he would perk up as we started moving, but after the first few minutes, and comments from others who noticed his lethargy, I realized we weren’t going to hunt that day. We bid a reluctant goodbye and headed home.
The vet who looked at him that afternoon found no obvious problems, although he noted some yellowing of the whites of his eyes that could signal liver trouble. He injected selenium and banamine, drew blood, and left. He called that night with the blood test results, indicating eleveated white blood cell and liver enzyme counts, and the ominous recommendation: “I think you need to go to Hagyard.”
Monday morning I got a call from the clinic saying they had set up my appointment at Hagyard for that afternoon. Arthur immediately made himself popular with a bevy of cute young vet techs. And then we met Dr. Fairfield Bain, who had the appearance and personality you might expect from that name: slightly preppy and self-confident, but in a nice relaxed old chum way, without a hint of arrogance.
As well as having a good stall-side manner, Dr. Bain was a wizard with the ultrasound machine. Arthur’s cute groupies and I stood mesmerized by a screen full of blurry lines as he told us what we were seeing, and how good it all looked. As he repeatedly drenched Arthur with alcohol for the ultrasound, I commented that it was just like hunting: people spilling alcohol on him. Even with that comment, I still didn’t get the connection. I needed a couple more clues.
We left Hagyard with no firm diagnosis, but a tentative followup plan. The good news was that the ultrasound showed no problems. Hagyard’s blood tests still showed some indications of a liver problem, but looked a little better than the earlier ones, which could be a sign that a problem had peaked and was going away. Awaiting the outcome of one more test, Dr. Bain prescribed some anti-inflammatories (oral Banamine and Trental) while we wait and see if things get better.
One of the Bitch Pack, in response to the news that Arthur had an unspecified liver problem, asked “What had he been drinking?” Yet another clue, which still went over my head.
I had signed out of work Monday with the terse note “Doctor”, because I planned to take it as a sick day. When I returned Tuesday, a co-worker who is approximately my age delicately asked if I was afflicted with anything age-related that he might need to worry about. I replied “Not unless you’re a horse with liver problems”. His response was “I don’t drink THAT much!” Yet another clue, which took some time to sink in.
Suddenly it all fit together. All the alcohol references that kept popping up, in relation to a horse who suddenly became ill after an outstanding hunt. I had indeed inflicted the wrath of St. Hubert with the grievous sin of returning with a full flask. I realize now that, after seeing none of the Bitch Pack at the meet, I should have left the flask in the truck, and not taken it into the holy sanctuary of the hunt field and then allowed it to return to unholy territory with its consecrated contents unconsumed. The only question now is what kind of penance I must do to atone for this most grievous sin.