The Midwife of Hope River

“Horses are like people, all different. Each will react to foaling in her own way. Mares that haven’t foaled before can foal late; then you worry about the size. Also, mares that are nervous struggle more and impede the process.” He’s lecturing now, almost as if I’m a student.

“Just like women in labor,” I comment. “Turn here.” I direct him down Raccoon Lick to Wild Rose Road.

As we pull into the yard, the vet looks around. “I haven’t been up here before.”

I take out my timepiece; it’s been four and a half hours since Moonlight was milked. “The barn is in back, but we better wash up.”

“Sorry the water’s cold,” I murmur. We’re in the kitchen, and I ladle almost cool water from the hot-water reservoir on the side of the cookstove. There are only coals left, and the house is growing chilly. “When the fire’s going, the water’s nice and warm.”

Mr. Hester shrugs and turns to stare through the doorway into my living room. He takes in the piano, the books, the framed paintings on the wall. I realize that he’s the first male to stand in this house since the men from the church brought the piano two years ago.

In the barn he’s all business, goes right to Moonlight.

“See what I mean? It’s a breast infection, isn’t it?” I comment. Then correct myself. “A teat infection, I mean.”

Hester doesn’t answer. He takes a thermometer out of his box and sticks it into my cow’s rectum. Moonlight barely reacts, just looks back once, her head hanging low. Gently he washes the whole udder with soap and water, then squeezes some kind of salve on his hands and palpates the red, swollen teat. The cow moans and he sees how it hurts her, but he keeps on with his examination.

I hand over the milk bucket, and he wraps his index finger and thumb around the red, swollen teat, then squeezes down with the other three fingers, careful not to force the milk uphill into the bag. I wince when blood squirts into the bucket.

The vet stops and examines the sick teat again. “The straw looks clean. Are you routinely washing your hands with soap and water before you milk?”

“Yes.” What I want to say is “What do you take me for, a dummy?” but I bite my tongue. No need to be disagreeable.

The vet gently compresses the bloody teat, up and down, side to side, searching for something. First one side, then the other. I watch his hands, wondering what he’s looking for.

“I think she has an obstruction, not simple mastitis. It might be a milk stone.”

He reaches into his satchel, selects a small metal box with sterilized instruments, pulls out a scalpel, and before I can say no makes a slit down the side of Moonlight’s sore teat. This time she almost kicks him, but he’s ready for her and ducks away. When she settles, he takes a long pair of curved tweezers and pulls out a white object about the size of a pea. He hands the instrument back, then gets out suture and gauze and begins to blot the oozing red as he sews up the incision in my poor cow’s teat.

“That’s a milk stone, probably what caused the infection in the first place,” he says as he works. “I could feel it in there. I’m surprised you didn’t.”

I tighten my mouth. “I’ve never heard of a milk stone. I wouldn’t have known to look for one.”

“That’s why you call a vet,” he says, and I feel my face flush.

“I did call a vet.”

“Keep your shirt on. Just next time get me sooner.”

“Not everyone has the money to call a veterinarian for the least little thing. Not everyone has a phone.” That shuts him up.

He stops for a second and stares at me. “Hemostat.” He picks up the instrument he just used and holds it out for me to see. “Needle driver.” He picks up another one. “Forceps.” He shows me the rest. “Retractor. Scissors. Scalpel . . . Do you do any stitching in your line of work?”

I’m surprised at his interest. “Some, not often. I’m good at getting babies out without tears, and I’ve never had to do an episiotomy. I know how, though.”

“Here.” He hands me a needle holder and a curved needle. “You can have these. I have several. Old Doc Collins, from Liberty, gave them to me when I bought his practice. They might help if you have a deep laceration. I’ll show you how to use them someday.” He stands and stretches his back, looking around. “Don’t forget, you owe me one more trip as an assistant.”

I stare down at the shiny silver needle holder. “Thank you,” I mumble, then jerk up. “What do you mean one more trip? I thought I’d paid for Moonlight’s visit by helping you with the foal. I did my job and more, bouncing around in your dusty old car.”

(Actually, I’d enjoyed myself. I don’t get to see a baby horse born every day, even if I did get covered with amniotic fluid and slime. Still, he irritates me.)

“Yeah, but I had to do surgery on your cow’s teat, and surgery costs more. It might even be two more trips.” Again the one corner of his mouth twitches. Is he joking? I can’t tell.

“Well, you’d have to come around Hope Ridge to get me, and sometimes I’m away at a birth . . . it would be hit and miss, and remember, I don’t have a phone.”

“Yeah, you told me that. Don’t you need one in your line of work?”

“You’re not getting the picture. I’d love one. It would help a lot, but the co-op electric and phone lines haven’t come out Raccoon Lick yet. None of my neighbors care about a telephone or electricity, and I couldn’t afford to pay extra to get the poles and line set just for me. I’m not a rich veterinarian. I don’t think there are rich midwives.”

“Not many rich vets either,” he says. The dig doesn’t faze him. “I guess neither of us do it for money.” We walk back toward the house and I let him into the kitchen so he can wash again. Against my better judgment I ask if he would like tea. It seems only neighborly, but I’m relieved when he says he has to get going. I’m not used to company, and when you’re as old and cranky as I am, you don’t miss it.

“Thank you for helping with the foal,” he responds, reaching out his hand. I shake it like he’s a banker or lawyer. I’m surprised that it’s so warm and folds over mine like a quilt on a snowy day. I’ve never felt a hand so warm, except Mrs. Kelly’s.