THE WEEK AFTER CHRISTMAS: Lily is alone with Bandit and Hershey in the tiled basement with a doggy door to the outside pen. I was a wreck. Was Lily happy, was she warm, was she jumping over the fence and getting away, getting hit by a car, getting lost in the woods, getting along with the other dogs? Would she get better or would she continue shooting food through her system, turning inside out? New Year’s Eve was coming and as I knelt on the downstairs tile floor — again and again — to wrap up a loose pile in paper towels then mop, I wondered if I should call the vet again. I wondered if Lily would trust me. Would she try to run away?
Fights over food bowls, dog toys, attention from Jerry and I. Bandit's new occasional habit includes a wrinkled nose and growling as he plods behind Lily. Why was this dog in his house? We now have a precarious home-life and nobody is happy with me. Everything and every dog to its place and I went and threw a bomb into it.
Help me Jerry … but he is doing the dishes.
Together Lily and I make and clean up messes, clean her ears, take pills. After a few days I find she is great on a leash, eager to listen, and still craps everywhere.

I call the vet and get another type of pill. She needs to hold her food. With ribs like a scallop shell Lily sits and watches me cook for her. Simmering chop meat and the sweet, but faint smell of rice rise with the steam from the pot. Help me Jerry … he feeds her too. Such an appetite.