What animals have made a difference in your life?

The next morning, a Saturday, we came across him, a quivering mass of red-brown quarter-horse flesh lying in the field, eyes half-closed and already glazing over. We carried him to the mare, but she would have none of him, sidestepping our every attempt to help him help himself to a mouthful or two of the lifegiving elixir she alone could provide, or deny.

—Survival of the fittest, she neighed. —Can't feed 'em both. Look at him, puny runt, he'll never make it anyway.

—He'll never make it without mother's milk, I scolded.

But we took him anyway, blanket-wrapped and laid him on the floor of the three-quarter ton truck bed, our young daughters holding watch, thrilled to be allowed to ride in the open air for once, thrilled at the thought of having a foal for a home pet.

Back at the house we settled him inside a small greenhouse that hadn’t yet been put to use.

—Not the right place, I worried at my partner. —Not enough air.

—It's all we've got, we don't have a shed and we can't leave him in the open.

I bit my lip. It was true, any foal, never mind one in his condition, would be easy prey for a coyote prowling up from the park or stray dog foraging in the neighbourhood.

—At least leave the door open a crack so he doesn't suffocate, I conceded.

We prepared borrowed baby formula and fed him from a bottle every hour or so. He couldn't take much at any given time. We would have prayed, but we had never been much for praying. You did what you could, that's all, was our motto. By evening he seemed stronger and we left him dancing on wobbly legs.

Monday came, a work day, a school day. I drove home at noon to check on him. When I got there the greenhouse door was tight shut, the foal lying on his side on the dirt floor. I slammed the door open, too late. Our little refugee had no breath, no vital signs, his body’s warmth not an indicator of life but of the force of the sun that beat down on him.

—What idiot did this to you? I railed. But of course, he had no answer for me, just the calm of death telling me: It’s too late. Don’t waste your breath. Don’t get lost in hopeless causes to find justice. And leaving me to wonder: Did he even have a fighting chance to begin with? What chance does a newborn have when its mother rejects it out of hand?

After the vet came to confirm what I already knew, I cried. We all did. We wept with the frustration of losing him now. We wept at the tragedy of his too-short life. We had hoped against hope for a second miracle.

But really, was this foal any less of a miracle than his sister? If anything, he was the greater miracle, even though he didn’t live, because he fought against greater odds.

And there is this too: In the single weekend we had him in our care he touched the hearts of two children and two adults in a way that the surviving twin never would. For a while we were all pulling together, united in our efforts to give the little foundling we had fallen in love with, a half-decent chance at life.