The thing the vet feared would happen to Tern's wound has happened to Tern's wound. It has kind of collapsed and the skin has died and all the nice neat stitches have gone wonky and cannot hold.
I think of Yeats, because I always think of Yeats: the centre cannot hold.
Oddly, the vet does not look much dismayed. I am dismayed. I drive away down the hill carrying a lot of sadness with me.
Then I think: we'll do whatever it takes. I'll earn enough money to keep her in vet hospital for months, if it comes to it. I'll work every night. The Cup of Coffee crew have already helped me so much, and others too.
I think: we'll do whatever it takes but I also know what I must do about the sadness. I remember this when the red mare had a mysterious injury and could not move and the emergency vet gave me the Prepare For The Worst face. It's going to sound a bit strange. I let the mares go. I let the red mare go and it turned out she was not ready and she stayed. I let Tern the Bird go, if she needs to leave. I give that decision to her and to the universe and to luck. However brilliant the vet, we need luck on our side.
I don't know why this works, but it does. I can't be carrying around a big rucksack of sorrow with me. We'll pick that up when we absolutely have to. In the meantime, I take her an evening feed redolent with mint and echinacea and turmeric and rosehips and all the good things. The vet laughs. 'She won't get better without echinacea,' he says. He knows my ways. He finds them comical, I think.
I do her hair and tell her that I love her.
And I let her go.