Triple Trouble: Walking the Enchanted Forest of Payco’s Never-Ending Injuries

“And maybe that’s the real magic here. Maybe it’s not in the wounds that missed the tendon or the graft that took, but in the horse who chooses to keep going. Who chooses to stay soft. Who still relaxes when he sees me…We’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re still walking.”

People use the expression, “we’re not out of the woods yet” when circumstances are still uncertain. It’s a saying that tells others, “I’m navigating a dark, tangled stretch of trouble with no guarantee of a clear path ahead.” However, for me, these aren’t just any woods I’m wandering through. I like to think of them as enchanted forests — full of magic, miracles and A LOT of catastrophe. At this point, every glimpse of light feels like a spell cast just to keep me moving, a flicker of hope that pulls me forward even when the path disappears beneath my feet. This particular situation is difficult for me to write about because it really felt like I saw light, an opening in the path at the end of the dark forest.

This is the best analogy I can give, watching Payco — my troublesome and painfully accident-prone horse — push through his second major injury. This Triple Trouble series could be solely dedicated just to Payco, and for now it is. The phrase “not out of the woods yet” has never cut so deep, or felt more literal. Because every time I see the edge of the forest, the trees shift — just when I think we’re stepping into the light — it turns out to be a mirage. A shimmering illusion designed to keep me going a few steps more. To keep me spending. Hoping. Believing we’re almost there.

We’re not. We’re not anywhere close.

Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

I had just started to feel like I could breathe. Payco’s radial fracture, a slow and stubborn injury, was healing. It had taken months of stall rest to finally get to the point of five-minute hand-walking sessions and a small turnout area. I’d been trying to do everything right: keeping him calm with Trazadone, keeping his environment safe, keeping faith that we were climbing out of this dark place together.

Payco’s most recent radial x-ray, showing positive progress. February 2025.

Then the path in the woods took a turn again.

Warning: Graphic images lie ahead. If you’ve got a weak stomach for things like this, I’d advise you to scroll past the photos.

It was a freak accident, the kind that makes you question how fate even works. Payco has been cleared for modified turnout. So I sectioned off the arena to give him a safe space to move around. This portion of the arena is surrounded by a three-boards fence with electric wire on the other side of the boards (away from the horse), dividing it from the pastures beyond. He was medicated, relaxed, managed. And still — it happened.

Based on looking at marks in the arena and the location, it appears Payco was rolling or sleeping close to the fence. When he got up, he caught his leg in the fence. And in the panic or confusion, he got tangled in the wire and tore all the boards off the fence — and all the skin off his right hind leg.

A degloving injury. One of those phrases that makes your stomach sink. It sounds exactly like what it is.

Initial injury. Photo by DeAnn Long Sloan.

But here’s where the enchantment comes in again. The wound is gruesome — deep, exposed, all the way down to the bone in multiple spots, hard to even look at — but somehow, in a near-mythical stroke of luck, all the vital structures were spared. Tendons exposed but intact. Hock joint capsule exposed but intact. Cannon bone exposed but not fractured.

It’s been like that this whole journey — these near-misses. Skin torn to the bone, but the bone survives. Joints dodged by millimeters. The forest we’re walking through keeps throwing monsters at us, but every time, we make it out by a hair. It’s not nothing. It’s enchanted. Not in a fairytale way, but in a way that feels like some kind of magic is watching over him, keeping him just intact enough to keep going.

There was no way to suture this injury. There were good flaps of skin, but massive gaps from those flaps to the other side. So we had to hope that the pre-existing flaps had enough blood flow to graft back onto the leg. After his first dressing change, only three days later, we already see that the graft is taking. The tissue is perfusing. There’s already new skin knitting itself together, and the swelling has stayed surprisingly low. He’s bearing weight already. His body wants to heal. His spirit hasn’t broken (even though I wish he’d tone it down a bit).

Beginning to do Payco’s first initial dressing change. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Here’s the other side of enchantment: magic costs. It’s never free. Every small miracle burns a hole in my pocket, deeper and deeper. Just when I think I can breathe financially — when I start to plan for normalcy again — the woods thicken and I’m pouring everything back into saving him.

We’re doing all we can. He’s on Gabapentin and Trazodone to keep him comfortable and calm. All four legs are wrapped — part protection, part ritual at this point. He’s getting IV gentamicin, IM Excede, oral banamine, and treated with manuka honey dressings like some ancient wound-healing spell passed down through horsewomen who’ve fought through this kind of heartbreak before.

And stall rest. Again. More time in confinement, more time walking the tightrope between healing and another accident. Every day is a balance of risk and hope, of love and logistics. I count the costs — but I keep paying them. Because he’s worth it. Because he trusts me to advocate for him. Because we’re not done yet.

Three days post injury. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Because I know some will wonder, I debated humane euthanasia. Quite seriously. This injury was of the magnitude that I had to ask myself whether or not we would choose to keep going, wondering if that was the best option for Payco. And the truth is, the answer wasn’t clear. It still isn’t. The woods keep stretching ahead. But with every breath and action, Payco lets me know he’s not done yet.

That’s the wildest part of all of this — Payco is still himself. Still gentle. Still patient. Still trusting. Even with all he’s been through, he doesn’t get testy when I put him in the crossties to change his dressings. He doesn’t fight when the vet gives IV and IM medications. He only seems a little angry at the world, for an extended stall stay. Yet he just… stands. Waits. Tries.

Photo by DeAnn Long Sloan

And maybe that’s the real magic here. Maybe it’s not in the wounds that missed the tendon or the graft that took, but in the horse who chooses to keep going. Who chooses to stay soft. Who still relaxes when he sees me.

I want to bottle that kind of strength. That kind of grace.

Three days post injury. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

I don’t know when we’ll be out of the woods. I don’t know if we ever really get out. Maybe the point isn’t the exit. Maybe it’s the walking. The choosing to keep going, even when the light is just a tease.

But I do know this: the woods may be enchanted, but we’re not lost. Not really. We’re navigating it one day at a time. Wrapped in gauze. Covered in honey. Guided by the impossible, stubborn, breathtaking will of a horse who just keeps showing up.

Payco is still here. Still healing. Still bearing weight. Still trusting. And so am I. We’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re still walking.