Too hurt to fight.
“I know, baby,” I whisper, smoothing a hand over Livy’s hair. “I know.”
“But she was getting better.”
The words crack right down the middle, and they break something in me.
Dr. Keller’s explanation keeps circling through my head.
Catastrophic colic.
A twist in her intestine.
Blood flow cut off.
Damage happening too fast for us to stop it.
He said sometimes it comes out of nowhere. One day, they seem fine. The next, they’re down and hurting, and there’s nothing anyone could have seen soon enough to change the outcome.
Long-term starvation had weakened her body in ways we couldn’t see from the outside. Her coat was improving. Her weight was coming back. Her eyes were brighter.
But inside, some damage had been there long before she ever came to us.
Livy lifts her head, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Can’t he fix it? The vet fixes animals all the time.”
My throat tightens until it hurts.
“Not this time, honey.”
Her face crumples.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, Mama.” She shakes her head hard, like if she refuses the words enough, they’ll stop being true. “No, she can’t die. She just started trusting us.”
Hope lets out a low, tired sound, and Livy’s sob catches.
I pull her closer, even though there’s nothing in me strong enough to hold this kind of pain for both of us.
“I know,” I whisper. “I hate it too.”
“She doesn’t deserve this.”
“No,” I say, my own voice breaking. “She doesn’t.”
Hope turns one ear toward Livy’s voice.
That tiny movement nearly undoes me.
Livy reaches out with trembling fingers and rests her hand against Hope’s neck. “Hi, sweet girl,” she whispers through her tears. “It’s okay. We’re here.”
Hope’s eye shifts toward her.
Trusting regardless of the pain she’s in.
“She’s scared,” Livy whispers. “Look at her eyes, Mama. She’s afraid.”
