Attention Jefferson County horse people, apparently we are having a baby.
Not a human baby. I already understand those come with hospital bills, sleep deprivation and an eventual demand for a car. This one comes with four legs, no health insurance and the ability to stand up 45 minutes after being born, which is honestly just showing off.
A human baby lies there like a drunk potato while everybody applauds a bowel movement. A foal hits the ground, sees death circling the barn and decides to get its shit together. Nature has survived millions of years without me, but nature never had Wi-Fi and untreated anxiety.
We have a baby horse on the way and I have questions. When do you call the vet? What supplies should already be in the barn? Do I need cameras, heat lamps, towels, iodine, twelve gallons of coffee and a priest? The internet says to remain calm, but the internet has clearly never met me.
My fiancé is a vet tech, so the baby has one qualified parent. I will be serving in my traditional role as director of panic, flashlight holder and person asking if every noise is normal.
If you have helped deliver a foal in eastern Ohio, please tell me what we actually need before nature kicks down the door. Baby names are also welcome, but management has rejected most of mine.
The books call birth a miracle because ‘wet midnight emergency involving hooves’ performs poorly with focus groups. I am preparing for both. If everything goes well, I will take credit for remaining nearby. If it goes badly, I will become the flashlight holder described by witnesses.
This dispatch appears in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer — $25, and the presses roll when 100 people pre-order.