Her right side was wet from levage, the constant flushing and rinsing of the surgical incision, wound and debris. Later, the surgeon handed me a large plastic vial containing the remains of her splint bone.
She is a vacuum cleaner. No bit of hay escapes her trawling muzzle. She didn't even look at it.
She almost looks normal here, but her head had simply sunk to the floor. The remnants of the general anesthetic had to wear off, but she barely moved. Two sensations ebbed and flowed in her: as the cloud of anesthesia lifted, the heat of pain took its place. I groomed her for two hours then, until her right side was dry. The simple act of grooming was a thing that brought us close. It helped to know I could do something good for her
She did not know how to stand on the leg, but she was too tired to hold it off the ground for more than a few seconds. Occasionally she twisted her neck around to look back there.
Little by little, she began to come back. I just wanted her to sleep, to be away from it all. She couldn't understand it anyway, so why have to feel it?
How can she be so pretty?
When she was finally clear eyed, I went home to H.G. and the cats. I had to. Every time I stepped away to take a picture, she moved to follow me. She stayed within a foot of me all afternoon, into the evening. I needed her to forget me, forget everything, start eating and go to sleep.
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