I am just breathing. I'm in a low tide of me, off my feed, reluctant to move, to think, to call, to write. As always, though, even when I have to drag myself out, time at the barn slows my head drama and brings me back to something basic. Fill the water buckets, clean the stalls, mix the grain, sweep the aisle: I never get tired of it.
I played with Dar today, running along the fence beside him. I have to smile at him, even when I'm feeling grim. And I was feeling grim. I haven't written the story about what happened to Scout, what really happened and how it all went down, but now it has taken an ugly turn. People tell me, "You've been lucky. Bad things happen at boarding stables all the time. This is the first time it involved one of your horses." I know what they mean, but it doesn't help right now. What I see is that Scout didn't matter, in the end, to the facility. I certainly didn't matter to them. They blew both of us off.
There is a fifth hurdle for Scout. Her post-op X-rays showed well-healed bone. The surgeon was pleased, so on Saturday we'll try turning Scout out, after six weeks of stall rest. It's not a moment too soon for my pony, who swings unpredictably between the warm cocoon of sedation and an anxious fury at being apart from her friends.