A moment of weightless weird buoyancy occurs when the elevator begins its descent. There is a bubble that starts somewhere in the sternum. Beneath the feet -- nothing. The floor drops and gravity has to rearrange its grip, rework the pulleys and tug down. When I hear the veterinarian’s suggestion there is a moment of weightlessness and buoyancy: I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, he says, but how about I take her for 24 hours? He asks, has there been any change? None. Nothing at all? None.

He tells me, I would like to have her here and observe what she does. Bring all her medications.

Poor Lily is a sick dog and I just can’t get a pound on her. I had asked her vet when I should start to worry and he told me, not yet.

OK. Not yet.

But it’s too late.

In my dream I drive and I reach for the brakes. Stepping on the pedal I press and it just flops underfoot.

Stuff starts whipping past me.

Outside at night the shadows make me tingle and I am afraid. The fear is nameless and without identity and only a reflex that strikes when I stare at the branches moving across a full moon. Lily! I want to go in. Quickly. I run and trip down stone steps. Palm out I stop myself before colliding with the wooden siding that Jerry spent so long repairing.

We are inside again and I have to put Lily downstairs. She paces and chases cats and is having a really restless night unlike the days when she drops her hips elbows knees and head down on the big doggy pillow with stuffing popping out one torn corner. What a good dog. She doesn’t bark, but I hear a high whine as she wheezes out her nose. That’s the only sound of her distress.

I am tired and inspiration is this cold, limp thing that droops across my shoulders and hugs me like wet cement. It is all mine for as long as I think I need it.

I don’t have it in me to put down good words today.