Lily flops on her back and where her legs and belly meet I can see her skin is withered like an empty, crumpled plastic bag. She is still reassembling herself into complete flesh and bone and I pet her happily.

You must feel great! How do you feel? You saved her! My parents and friends have said with so much excitement. But I am the party pooper and feel like the beast who takes hope and joy like marshmallows and blows them up in the microwave. I am like the messenger of terrible news for the three-year-old who comes downstairs on December 26 and sees remaining gifts beneath the tree: sorry bud, Christmas is over…

Now the task of insurmountable work unfurls. I need to get a grip on a dog finally waking each day with a body pleading for exercise and a chance to run chase jump surge and dash in zig zags across the uneven and tricky forest floor. From the leaves today jumped out a branch like a finger to stab my boot as I rushed downward and really needed a sure step to catch myself. Close. Really close.

Thank God for my forearms, elbows and right hip. Without them to break my fall I might have hit the ground. Those scrapes and bruises are fine. It's the stupid ones that wake a sleeping rage and urge to smash whatever I can reach. As in, I really hate hitting my head on a cabinet that I left open. I think Jerry hates it more than I do, because he did not leave the cabinet open. Thank God again, that people can't die from blame.

Jogging Saturday and I hear a really little girl's really squeaky voice say Doggy! Her hair catches sunlight from the side and shimmers, while creases of shadow streak the other. She sees Lily trotting along and sticky little fingers wiggle. Dog!

Ask if you can pet her honey…her father crouches down and reminds her.

Oh, she loves everyone! I tell him. Mom crouches down too and I squat behind Lily so I can see the little girl who loves the big funny furry thing with a giant black nose. Little fists clutch fur.

The bar. Bless these dollars dipped in whiskey and flavored with brandy and beer. I need them. How many times can I thank the owner for the extra work and the chance it provides to pay Lily's bills?

She needs her enzyme powder mixed with every meal. Is there any other way, a coworker asks. No. Well, yes. I can chase down a fleeing pig and tear out its pancreas for Lily to eat. Everyday.

I have stood at this place before where I am smaller than the looming blades of grass beside me, staring up the rocky climb where the Emerald City of promise and fulfillment at its top is so far away it's like the green light miles in the distance. No chance you'll make it.