Monday, January 4, 2010

NEW YEAR’S EVE MORNING: I jog with my dogs. I include Lily, but I take her separately. She behaves so well with her ears twisted forward, a loping gate, obedient. Ho, hold it, hold it, I say. Lily stops by my side and we wait, then continue.
Lily and I make tracks in the snow. About a half mile from home she slows, lifts her back paws. She hops a bit, then sits like the Sphynx — immobile, watchful, willing to remain eternally. I tug her along and we trot home. Bandit and Hershey and short, stumbling Ozzy the pug run free while I keep Lily tethered to me. All of us run up behind the house and play in the woods. Good girl Lily.

JANUARY 1, 2010: So many bones. Ribs and hips and ridge after ridge of backbone. We finish one bottle of pills. Lily's messes downstairs are less frequent. We hear her stomach gurgle. I feed her and feed her and feed her little bits all day. Is it soaking in?
Why is she peeing upstairs now?
Everyone piles into the truck and we travel to the forest. Jerry is with me. Thank God for Jerry. Lily stays with us. They chase sticks and argue and nip. Hershey wants to be left alone. Lily wants to play. Hershey gets annoyed. Lily wants to play. They run and splash at the slushy edges of Lake Zoar. Eventually we’re home, everyone sleeps, and I find a surprise downstairs. Lily left something that’s a little firmer, a little heavier than before. Good girl Lily.

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