I look down and count her ribs, her vertebrae, and my gaze wanders on to look at the beautiful cascade of her tail. Its tip brushes the ground.
I was awful today. Edgy. Nervous.
Poor Lily just can't keep her food in. I try to give her pills that I imagine will heal her, although they are only another attempt to find a solution to her urgent diarrhea. It comes and comes.
More paper towels and mopping. Small plastic bags filled with the messes I clean are spread across the patio where I toss them outside. They look like a burst of mushrooms.
Large, round and green. Oblong thick and white. Perfectly round. Her pills are a mystery to me. How will these capsules reach inside Lily's body and make her well? I fold them in a slice of cheese and push it beneath the rice in her dish. She finds it, drags it out, chomps once, and drops it. I pick it up and push the now crumbling pocket of cheese and pills into her mouth. Her head shakes and the bits of cheese and pills and rice are everywhere.
Oh Lily.