Was it a deer or a horse? It did not matter; I had to cut it’s forelegs off just above the hooves with garden loppers. The large animal flopped to the ground and began writhing about with no hooves to stand on. I felt sorry for it, but there was no blood or wound to dress. There was nothing to do but make sure it got food and water. The animal had to work out the rest. I was sure it would manage with a little help from me, some hay and a l0w trough it could belly up to.
The land is clay and dark moist. I stand with a man of about my age taller and thinner, more deeply lined by time, but still fit. We stand looking out on the cold lake in the twilight children shriek and scream, laughing and thrilling in the icy water.
“A drowning child. Lets hope,” he says looking down at the ground. “Seems like good soil.”
“Oh, yes we had a garden most of time up by the house. Nice rich soil.”
We look back up the hill to an immense sprawling modern house with rounded stone walls and glass gleaming grey in the last light, scraggly volunteer trees cropping up darkly around the stilted base obscuring the lower levels.