At 8:30 this morning I turned Raven and Tonka out onto the pasture and started my chores. It was 10:00 when I finished, and I decided to leave them out for another hour, at which point David and I had to leave to meet some friends for lunch. At 10:30 David pointed out that lazy old Raven was lying down and eating whatever grass she could reach from her recumbent position. I didn't think much of it as she loves to sunbathe, and this is the first sunny day we've had all week. She was down again when I went to bring them in, at which point the alarm bells started to ring. Sure enough, she was pawing and pacing and rolling by the time I got dressed for lunch, so I sent David on alone.
Fortunately Dr. Schwichtenberg was nearby and able to make it within the hour. She administered a shot of Banamine and described Raven's gut as a "veritable disco" of the sounds associated with a gas colic. I was left with instructions to encourage grazing, restrict hay, watch carefully, and not let my guard down until I'd counted three poops. So I stuck Raven in the goat paddock, pulled up a chair and waited. And waited. The third one came around 3:30 and I swear to both Neptune and Poseidon that the horse started to buck and kick and rear about thirty seconds later. Given the size of the goat paddock I decided to move her back to the pasture, where she galloped around for about a minute, obviously feeling better. I am still keeping a close watch as Banamine is potent enough to mask several hours of colic pain, but I think she's in the clear. As always, the cats remain entirely unconcerned about the plight of the other hostages held at Farcical Farm.