So there we were last night, ready - ish - to go on holiday, and Titch went suddenly and horribly lame. Vet was called. Infected tendon. Needed immediate surgery. Off to hospital.
Of course, Titch didn't want to get on the lorry. He wanted to be at home. Didn't we know he wasn't well? Three of us persuaded him on board, and off we set, Titch muttering darkly and emitting the occasional pathetic whinny. When we arrived, he sniffed his new surroundings, decided he definitely didn't like what he was sniffing (andtiseptic, fear and vets), and said he'd seen it all now, thank you very much, and would like to go home now.
We left him; me crying, and Titch wide-eyed and trembling. They phoned later to say the op had been successful, and at 11.30 pm to say the patient was now standing up. Phew.
After the week we've had, this was (almost) the last straw. Because although Titch is in good hands, and probably doesn't need me, I need him; to see for myself that he's ok. But I can't. All I can do is send him grapes and a copy of Horse and Hound, and keep everything crossed that he gets well soon.
We fly off tomorrow morning. I think when it comes to it, I'll be quite relieved.