05/11/2024
I did not want to write this because I did not want it to be real. But for a while now Iāve had the suspicion that the red mare wasnāt quite right.
Sheās been doing mighty things - accompanying the young ones up into the hills, walking with me deep into the woods - but Iāve been noticing two little lines over her eyes and I could not pretend they werenāt there. Iāve been brought up not to make a fuss. I confess I do rather like the whole not making a fuss thing. Itās very British and rather endearing. The older I get, the more I loathe drama. But one can take it too far. I had the conversation in my head - can I really ask the vet to come because there are two tiny lines above my mareās eyes? - and the answer was, in the end, yes, I damn well can.
We none of us like being mocked, I suppose, or thought fools. I am capable of vast amounts of folly, so I am used to a certain look in peopleās eyes. (People really do give me āWhat on earth are you on about?ā looks, and quite often I have no idea why.) And I donāt like to waste peopleās time. But in the end the vet had to come anyway, to take Ternās stitches out, and I requested a full check-up and was ready to laugh uproariously at myself for my over-reaction, if that was what it was.
I donāt want to write this and my fingers are stuttering away and there will be no poetry in this essay, and no jokes either. We shanāt, however, make a fuss. I knew the red mare was not quite herself and however much we carried on and I told myself I was talking moonshine, I was, in the end, right. The vet frowned and saw the not-quite-right and took blood and weāre going to do some things.
It may simply be a function of old age and weāll just have to adjust a few things. Thatās what Iām hoping for. It may be Ternās time to step up for the mountain scrambles and the adventures in the high places.
But of course the bird of mortality swoops over the magic field and hovers above us. I have to look at that bird and allow it to fly with us.
They canāt live forever, not even the ones who are the Queen of Everything. And that is one of the saddest realities of life.
So I've had a little cry about that hard truth and now I square my shoulders and embark on my next most important mission. We need to take extra care now we are moving into a different part of life. We canāt dash about like we used to. The vet, whom we both adore, looked at us and laughed so kindly and said, āYou are ladies of a certain age. You both need rest days!ā
(I had been thinking of my own mortality and have been madly putting on steps every single day. Thousands and thousands of them. The red mare came with me on this intense physical odyssey, by my side. I suddenly realise that both my parents had very broken bodies by the end of their lives and perhaps I have been haunted by that.)
So, we shall regroup. I donāt truly believe there is going to be any bad news. We may simply have to put in place a Later Years Protocol. The red mare has many, many herbs and minerals in her diet, but Iām now looking up ones that specifically help with joints and muscles. I will need to invent a fitness programme which keeps her strong but does not put strain on her.
A mission with purpose and meaning is, I often think, one of the great things of human existence. The red mare taught me that. Now we have a new mission, so that she may flourish amongst us and bring us joy for a while longer. We canāt just canter about with a song in our heart. We have to get serious. A little warning light has blinked red, and sometimes that is a most useful thing.