Page 19 of Stuff My Turkey
Honey swallowed hard but stepped closer, kneeling at Duchess's head opposite Jake. "Hi there, beautiful," she murmured, tentatively stroking the mare's neck. "You're doing great."
I caught Jake's questioning look and gave a slight nod. He excused himself, heading to the other end of the barn for more supplies, leaving Honey alone with the horse's head.
As I worked, checking the foal's position inside the birth canal, I kept glancing up at Honey. Her initial discomfort had given way to focused attention. She'd found a rhythm stroking Duchess's neck, speaking in low, soothing tones about nonsense—her favorite movies, a funny story about a judge's toupee coming loose during a trial, how beautiful the stars had looked on our walk to the barn.
The mare seemed to take comfort in her voice, ears flicking toward the sound even as another contraction wracked her body.
"Good news," I announced, sitting back on my heels. "Foal's positioned right, just big. She's gonna need help."
"What can I do?" Honey asked, meeting my eyes across Duchess's heaving form.
"When I tell you, I need you to push on her belly—right here," I positioned her hands on the mare's flank. "Jake and I will help pull. Timing is everything."
Jake returned with a bucket of warm water and more clean towels. We took our positions—me at the rear where I could grip the foal's front legs once they appeared, Jake ready to assist, and Honey poised to provide counter-pressure.
"Now," I commanded as another contraction began.
Honey leaned her weight into Duchess's side. The mare let out a low groan as I gripped the emerging hooves, applying steady traction in time with her contractions. My hands were slick with birth fluids, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the earthy smell of horse and hay.
"That's it, girl," I encouraged as the foal's nose and head finally appeared. "Almost there."
With one final push, the foal slid free in a rush of fluid and membrane. I immediately began clearing its airways, rubbing its chest to stimulate breathing while Jake helped Duchess to her feet. I'd done this dozens of times, but the magic of bringing a new life into the world never faded.
"Is it okay?" Honey asked, voice tight with concern.
Before I could answer, the foal let out a small, indignant snort and shook its head.
"She's perfect," I said, relief loosening the knot in my chest. "A filly."
Honey's face transformed with wonder as she watched the newborn—spindly-legged and still slick with birth—attempt to raise her head. "She's so beautiful."
I passed her a clean towel. "Want to help dry her off?"
For the next hour, we worked together, drying the filly, making sure she nursed for the first time, and checking both mother and baby for any complications. Honey proved surprisinglysteady, following instructions without hesitation, her initial squeamishness forgotten in the miracle unfolding before us.
The smell of birth hung heavy in the air—blood and amniotic fluid, sweat and straw. It wasn't pretty, but it was real—more real than any courtroom drama Honey had likely faced. Yet here she was, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked behind her ears, utterly focused on helping this mare and foal.
Dawn had just begun to lighten the sky when the newborn finally wobbled to her feet. We stood back, giving her space for those crucial first steps. Honey gasped beside me as the filly took one tentative step, then another, legs splaying comically before finding their rhythm.
"I've never seen anything like this," she whispered, unconsciously leaning against my side as her eyes grew misty.
I couldn't tell which moved me more—the newborn filly finding her footing or the naked amazement on Honey's face. In the soft glow of morning, with hay in her hair and smears of birthing fluid on her borrowed sweatshirt, she looked more alive than I'd ever seen her.
"What will you name her?" Honey asked, not taking her eyes off the filly.
Names were important on a ranch. You didn't name livestock you planned to sell—that road led to heartbreak. But this filly, daughter of my best mare, would stay.
"Actually," I said, "I thought you might want to do the honors."
She turned to me, surprise evident in her hazel eyes. "Really? But she's yours."
"You helped bring her into the world," I shrugged. "Seems fitting."
Honey studied the foal thoughtfully. The tiny horse had her mother's chestnut coloring but with a perfect white star on her forehead and one white sock on her right front leg. As wewatched, she took a few more steps, still wobbly but becoming more confident by the moment.
"Grace," Honey decided softly. "Her name is Grace."
Something inside my chest shifted—a tectonic plate moving beneath the surface. In that moment, I understood this was more than just a name for a horse. On this ranch where I preserved heritage and tradition, Honey had left her mark. Not with legal arguments or activist show-downs, but with something beautiful and permanent. Something ours.
