Camped Out

I spent last night in a sleeping bag on an air mattress, on the floor next to Rumor's whelping box. Just in case. Other than my complaining about her gassy-ness and her disdainful looks about my snoring, it was uneventful.

This morning's temp was higher than yesterday's, but still a smidge below normal. Her appetite remains hearty, she had a romp on our walk around the pasture, and looks for all the world like she'll stay pregnant for another month. Her temp at 1445 was 100.0 F, which, if Hutchison is to be believed, the temp going back up is "the sign" that labor should start in less than 24 hours.

We'll see. As my friend Sherita says, bitches don't read the books.

The last mare I bred had me waiting for an eternity. The ranch manager called to say she believed the mare would deliver early, as she was bagging up and getting muscle slack. So I drove out with Dot (gotta sleep with somebody!) and the trusty air mattress. And proceeded to sleep in my car for a month while the mare went full term. She dropped a stud colt on a moonless night, precisely 341 days after she was bred, not one minute sooner. Which I slept through, just 10 feet away. Prey animals are masters of sneaky.

I have stacks of books, CDs, and fluffy pillows in between the whelping box and the first aid supplies. Nothing to do but settle in and wait.