At 5 am, his breathing was wrong—his tongue and gums were grey. An emergency vet visit ensued, and through sleepy eyes, I saw him slip away from us minute by minute. We returned home an hour or so later. Empty. Numb. Heartbroken.
Over the following days, I cried until there were no tears left. Until I could talk about him without tears breaking over the dam that I'd built. It felt right to imagine him off, finding his girlfriend Luna, straight into a universe where he’s running free, chasing rabbits he’ll never quite catch and rolling in whatever disgusting thing he can find, completely in his element. And the nicest thought of all is that he’s no longer afraid. No more gunshots, no more thunderstorms, no more jumping at doors slamming or even his own shadow. Just peace, and a kind of freedom he never quite trusted when he was here on this earth
And then.....
On my group walk, we found her. On a quiet track near a quiet road, during what was meant to be just another day. A tiny ibex, alone, alive, and lying there, clearly in shock. We couldn’t just leave her like that. I called Hector's vet and they agreed to help. Then I called her mumma names for leaving her alone.
As my friends continued to walk the last of the route, another friend collected me to drive on to the vets. As we drove along the road, up over the hill, she walked out in front of us and stood there.
Mumma.
She must have watched from a safe position, watching me pick her baby up. We locked eyes, and I sent her a telepathic message. I desperately wanted her to understand I was trying to help. After a minute. She moved aside. Turned to look one last time. And ran off, as we continued on our way.
Last week, after the trauma of losing Hector, going back to pay, then to collect his paw print. I silently vowed I would never go back. And here I was again. Standing among dogs, quizzically looking up at me, I cradled this beautiful, week-old baby. Her fragile life in my arms. My hand instinctively stroked her head, as if reassuring her she would be ok. I handed her over. Into the care of someone I prayed would help her recover.
The vet thinks she’d been hit by a car, just shortly before we found her in our path and possibly had a head trauma. The kind of situation where you already know the odds before the words land, even if you don’t say it out loud. But still, you hold onto the possibility that she will pull through, that maybe she could be reunited with her mum or find somewhere safe, somewhere she’d be looked after. And for a little while, her story was hopeful. She had improved by the next day. She ate a little of the goat's milk I had returned to give her.
But she too passed.
The vet said, "She appeared stronger, then faded slowly like a candle" And now I am imagining her clambering hillsides and jumping rocks with all the other ibex who passed before her. Free of dangerous cars. And possibly crossing paths with our Hector.
It’s a different kind of sadness, because there aren’t years of memories to look back on, just a brief moment where our paths crossed. Yet it hurts. But what matters to me the most is that neither would have felt alone at the end. That in their last moments, there was warmth, care, and a sense of love.
Two weeks. Two lives. Two different tales. One full of years, habits, and familiar routines, and one that barely had the chance to begin. But both leave something important behind. A reminder that love isn’t measured in time. It's in the quiet moments you choose to care.
In a world where people are fighting. The scales are balanced with many more coming together for good and supporting each other.
And that’s what both Hector and Bex leave behind.
Not just sadness.
But proof that love exists.
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