The First Warm Day
Today we learned that our 17 year old dog, Mr. Bill, dog of my divorce, J.'s double, is nearing the end of his days, and we need to decide soon when he will compassionately exit this life. I sobbed for an hour, called J., picked him up from his dorm, sobbed some more. Mr. Bill can barely walk, can't stand up on his own anymore without assistance or a rug, has lost enough weight that his bones are traced beneath his thin fur. But he still eagerly eats the cat's food, can magically hear when I open a can of dog food (though he cannot hear much else, nor see, nor understand where he is or why most of the time.) I have always hoped he would die peacefully in his sleep and I would not have to make this decision, having made it traumatically for numerous animals before him. But. I do not think that will be the case. This week is our birthdays, J. and me. He'll be 19, I'll be 47. Both feel impossibly old and young at the same time. We have had Mr. BIll since I was 30 and ...