This foal was different.
I had been hiking the dunes of Shackleford looking for a breeding herd to photograph.
This colt would probably not live. Even carefully-managed domestic horses die from colic, and this was an advanced case in a scrawny colt that apparently had endured a difficult life. What could I do for him? Not much. But, I was human, and a medic besides. It was hard to see him suffer.
I imagined his lack of companionship was probably nearly as stressful for him as the pain. Murmuring quietly to him, I approached. He couldn't stand, but he withdrew his neck as far from me as possible, eyes whited in fear. His only close contact with people had probably been last fall, when the parks service rounded up, blood tested, and freeze branded the entire herd. I was human, and not his idea of a friend.
I scratched my fingers along his neck, mimicking the sensation of the grooming he would get from the nibbling, scratching teeth of another horse. If he were with his family, he would frequently engage in mutual grooming with his herdmates. Standing head to tail, horses pair with friends and work each other's coats with their incisors, scratching itches, killing insects, and loosening shedding fur. Studies have shown that this is more than a pleasant back scratch. It tends to strengthen the social bonds between horses, and reduces stress, slowing the heartrate slows by 11-14% on average.
The Parks Service policy is not to intervene when nature takes its course. The weak succumb. Besides, he would probably die in the time it took for a veterinarian to be found and brought to the island. His distended belly and hyperactive bowel sounds indicated acute colic. When I am on the islands studying the horses, I remind myself that I am there as an observer only. I keep my distance, approaching quietly and unintrusively, if at all. I know I could have interacted with many of the feral horses that I studied, as many were fairly tame and habituated to encroaching humans. However, this never seemed right to me. I was determined not to succumb to the human inclination to attempt to befriend wild animals. I was there only to study them, disturbing their lives as little as possible. 
By May, 1997, the population had been culled down to between 110 and 140 widely distributed individuals. I was a little disappointed that this trip I only encountered bachelor males at the eastern tip of the island, but amused myself by gathering shells and sketching flowers. My trophy was the old, brittle horse skull I found in the marsh at low tide. In fact, I had found many bones, my eyes drawn to their distinctively orange coloration amongst oyster shells and cordgrass. 
portrait shot through my zoom lens. He put his forefeet in front of him, lurched upward, but could not rise. It was then that I realized his situation. He was too weak to stand. His abdomen was huge and bloated, and his eyes glowed with pain. I could hear the continuous loud gurgling of his abdomen from some distance away, and his respirations were labored at a rate of sixty. A resting horse usually has a respiratory rate no greater than 16 breaths per minute, although foals breathe faster and respirations are also faster when the horse is lying down. But sixty?
Well, I reasoned, I had never had a tick bite in my life, despite years of hiking through meadows and brush. I must not be appetizing to them. Besides, if I were a tick, I would prefer to lunch on a furry foal, rather than find a meal-site on hairless, human legs. I doubted the ticks would be interested in me. (This was later disproved when I returned to my campsite, to find innumerable ticks dislodged in the shower, and the next morning, one deeply embedded in my inner thigh.)
As he accepted my presence, the colt allowed me to peer into his mouth and verify his age at about 7 months - perhaps last September's foal. 
My fingers found the artery below his jaw, and I counted the pulse at a rapid 94, about double the normal rate of 45 to 60 for foals six to twelve months old. His mucus membranes were moist, though, he wasn't extremely dehydrated. I hadn't brought much water, but I attempted to share what I had with him. He was interested in the smell of it, but wouldn't drink what I offered. Eventually, he let out a sigh, and rolled flat onto his side, his heavy head resting in my lap. What a poignant moment, being so close to a trusting wild foal during his last difficult hours. I knew that he would soon be adding his bones to the shifting sands of Shackleford, bones like the ones I had so cheerfully collected in the marsh an hour before. Nature was about to reclaim one of her own. Death is part of the balance too.
This web site is an online companion to the book Hoofprints in the Sand: Wild Horses of the Atlantic Coast, serving as a scrapbook of information, observations, and photographs, and providing links to related sites.
Hoofprints in the Sand is published by Eclipse Press. You may order your copy at www.eclipsepress.com or from Amazon.com
