OUR PRINCESS
Rebecca Block faces heartbreak in this second part of her story. She shares her story in the hope that the loss of her stunning cria Princess might help other owners plan ahead and prepare for the unthinkable. The first part of Rebecca’s story of her Princess was published in our July issue.
A
s we continued with the antibiotic injections after the vet’s second visit on New Year’s Eve, I realised how very thin and emaciated Princess had become – even in her face I could see the weight just slipping off. I knew in my heart that Princess was growing weaker as the days’ past. She continued to be as calm and stoic as ever but I knew the light was gradually fading from her. It was not something a casual observer might notice, but I knew she just wasn’t right. I phoned the vet again with urgency and pushed to have blood tests and a biopsy taken to find out what was going on. It was exactly two weeks after the vet’s first visit and I was told that we should wait another week to bring her to the surgery in order to allow for the paperwork for an Enferplex blood test (for TB). Richard and I both felt that under the circumstances this was such an unlikely explanation that it was hardly worth doing, but I reluctantly agreed in order to rule it out from the start. All my herd had been agisted in an area of the country with very low TB risk and all had tested negative before travelling to live with us on the Isle of Wight two months before Princess was born. I knew we just needed to get on with the tests as soon as possible, so we booked her in first thing the following Monday. Meanwhile, we brought Princess and her mother Beatrice into the stables as the weather had turned cold and although Princess was adorned in a smart red coat we wanted to keep her warm and dry and close at hand. Beatrice hated being away from the others and did her best to break out at any given opportunity. They were not alone as we had four newcomers in quarantine
22 Alpaca #88
in the next stalls, but she did not consider them part of the herd or suitable company. Princess and I rode together in the back of Erika, my blue Land Rover Defender, on the morning of her biopsy. She didn’t seem to mind being whisked away from mummy first thing and insisted on standing all the way of our ten minute journey, eagerly looking out at all the new sights and sounds. It was her first outing from the farm and she wasn’t going to miss any of it. Once home we settled her back in with Beatrice and she finally got to have breakfast. The vet had taken bloods and a slice through the lump that had left quite a few stitches. With the fleece now removed we could see the extent of the hard mass we had felt. We kept them both in for the next two nights to allow the wound to heal a little. By this time they had been stabled for almost a week, the weather had turned a little milder and Beatrice really did not want to be contained any longer. We figured that the best thing for them both was to be settled among the herd, nibbling what little grass we had in the fields and munching on hay with the others. I phoned the vet daily to find out any progress on the test results. These came in dribs and drabs – bloods normal; vitamin levels normal; possible cell change indicated by the aspirate taken from the lymph node; nothing conclusive yet.
Sad days
Friday morning I set my alarm extra early to check on them, something had pricked my attention the night before on our final check before bed, maybe it was instinct. In the half light I could see from the bedroom some of the girls were
