On the same day that Grandpa was airlifting the ponies and Paul and
Maureen were drying out Misty's stall, Misty herself felt strangely
unhappy.
She had a freshly made bed in a snug stable, and she couldn't have been
lonely for she was never without company. If she so much as scratched
an ear with a hind hoof, young David Finney tried to do it for her.
If she lipped at her hay, he tore handfuls out of the manger and
presented it joyously to her. If she lay down, he tried to help her get
comfortable.
And there were newspaper men coming and going, taking pictures of her
in her stall, out of her stall, with David, without David. One caught
Misty pulling the ponytail of a lady reporter. There was plenty of
laughter and a constant flow of visitors.
But in spite of all the attention she was getting, Misty felt
discontented and homesick. She was accustomed to the cries of sea
birds, and the tang of salt air, and the tidal rhythm of the sea. And
she was accustomed to going in and out of her stall, to the old tin
bathtub that was her watering trough. But here everything was brought
to her.
She kept shaking her head nervously and stamping in impatience.
Occasionally she let out a low cry of distress which brought David and
Dr. Finney on the run. But they could not comfort her. She yawned right
in their faces as much as to say, "Go away. I miss my own home-place
and my own children and my own marsh grass."
In all the long day there was only one creature who seemed to sense her
plight. It was Trineda, the trotter in the next stall. The two mares
struck up a friendly attachment, and when they weren't interrupted by
callers, they did a lot of neighborly visiting. If Misty paced back
and forth, Trineda paced alongside in her own stall, making soothing,
snorting sounds. The newsmen spoke of her as Misty's lady-in-waiting,
and some took pictures of the two, nose to nose.
When night came on, Trineda was put out to pasture, and Misty's sudden
loneness was almost beyond bearing. She shied at eerie shadows hulking
across her stall. And her ear caught spooky rustling sounds. Filled
with uneasiness, she began pacing again, not knowing that the shadows
came from a lantern flame flickering as the wind stirred it, not
knowing that the rustling sounds were made by Dr. Finney tiptoeing
into the next stall, carefully setting down his bag of instruments, and
stealthily opening up his sleeping roll.
When at last there was quiet, Misty lay down, trying to get
comfortable. But she was even more uncomfortable. Hastily she got up
and tried to sleep standing, shifting her weight from one foot to
another.
Suddenly she wanted to get out, to be free, to high-tail it for home.
She neighed in desperation. She pawed and scraped the floor, then
banged her hoof against the door.
Trineda came flying in at once, whinnying her concern. Trying to help,
she worked on the catch to the door, but it was padlocked. She thrust
her head inside, reaching over Misty's shoulder, as much as to say,
"There, there. There, there. It'll all be over soon."
Dr. Finney watched, fascinated, as the four-footed nurse quickly calmed
her patient. "It'll probably be a long time yet," he told himself.
"Nine chances out of ten she'll foal in the dark watches of the night.
I'd better get some sleep while I can." He was aware that many of his
friends would pity him tonight, shaking their heads over the hard life
of a veterinarian. But at this moment he would not trade jobs for any
other in the world. Each birth was a different kind of miracle.
Sighing in satisfaction, he slid down into his sleeping bag and settled
himself for a long wait. The seconds wore on, and the minutes and the
slow hours. He grew drowsy and he dozed, and he woke to check on Misty,
and he dozed again. Toward morning his sleep was fitful and he dreamed
that Misty was a tree with ripening fruit--just one golden pear. And
he dreamed that the stem of the fruit was growing weak, and it was the
moment of ripe perfection.
A flush of light in the northeast brought him sharply awake. He
peered through the siding and he saw Misty lying down, and he saw wee
forehoofs breaking through the silken birth bag, the head resting upon
them; then quickly came the slender body with the hindlegs tucked under.
He froze in wonder at the tiny filly lying there, complete and whole in
the straw. It gave one gulping gasp for air, and then its sides began
rising and falling as regularly as the ticking of a clock.
Alarmed by the gasping sound, Misty scrambled to her feet and turned to
look at the new little creature, and the cord joining them broke apart,
like the pear from the tree. Motionless, she watched the spidery legs
thrashing about in the straw. Her foal was struggling to get up. And
then it was half way up, nearly standing!
Suddenly Misty was all motherliness. She sniffed at the shivering wet
thing and some warning impulse told her to protect it from chills.
Timidly at first, she began to mop it dry with her tongue. Then as her
confidence grew, she scrubbed in great rhythmic swipes. Lick! Lick!
Lick! More vigorously all the time. The moments stretched out, and
still the cleaning and currying went on.
Dr. Finney sighed in relief. Now the miracle was complete--Misty had
accepted her foal. He stepped over the unneeded bag of instruments
and picked up a box of salt and a towel. Then, talking softly all the
while, he unlocked Misty's door and went inside. "Good girl, Misty.
Move over. There, now. You had an easy time."
With a practiced hand he sprinkled salt on the filly's coat and the
licking began all over again. "That's right, Misty. You work on your
baby," he said, unfolding the towel, "and I'll rub _you_ down. Then
I'll make you a nice warm gruel. Why, you're not even sweating, but we
can't take any chances."
Misty scarcely felt Dr. Finney's hands. She was nudging the foal with
her nose, urging it up again so that she could scrub the other side.
The little creature _wanted_ to stand. Desperately it thrust its
forelegs forward. They skidded, then splayed into an inverted V, like
a schoolboy's compass. There! It was standing, swaying to and fro as if
caught in a wind.
Smiling, Dr. Finney stopped his rubbing. He saw that all was well.
Reluctantly he left the stall.
Minutes later he was on the telephone. Young David stood behind him,
listening in amazement and disgust. How could grown-ups be so calm,
as if they'd just come in from repairing a fence or pulling weeds? He
wanted to do hand-springs, cartwheels, stand on his head! But there was
his father's voice again, sounding plain and everyday.
"Yes, Paul. She delivered at dawn."
"A mare-colt, sound as a dollar."
"Yes, I'm making Misty a warm mash. Just waiting for it to cool a bit."
"No, Paul, she's just fine. Everything was normal."
"No, don't bring the nanny goat. Misty's a fine mother."
"Don't see why not. By mid-afternoon, anyway."
Dr. Finney put the receiver in place, stretching and yawning.
"Dad, what don't you 'see why not'?" David asked.
"Why they can't take Misty and her foal home today."
"Can I go out and see her now?" David pleaded.
"No, son," Dr. Finney replied. Then he saw the flushed young face and
the tears brimming. "Of course you can go later. Just give them an hour
or so alone."
_Chapter 19_