Last night, out of nowhere, little Windchill the 10-month-old colt died in his sleep. He was rescued from unbearably frigid temperatures three weeks ago, and given a 1 percent chance of survival. Amazingly, he not only survived, he thrived. He was putting weight on his emaciated frame, and with the aid of a sling he was able to hoist himself on his frost-bitten legs and stand.
Though I often complained about covering his recovery, I never wished him ill and am surprised by the feelings of my icy heart melting upon news of his death.
RIP, Little Neigh.
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