Somewhere, a dog is dying.
It might have found a cool, dark spot to curl up in; maybe under the porch. It might be laying in its bed; it knows when it goes to its bed it’s a very Good Boy, or very Good Girl. The dog might be laying in its master’s bed, waiting for them to come home or it might, if it’s very lucky, laying beside its favorite person right now.
But the dog *is* dying, and it’s a sad sight. The house with a fragile dog is quiet. We walk softly so as not to disturb its sleep. We talk in whispers about the right thing, the right time, and we remember when the dog was strong and able to run to us whenever we called.
But there’s medicine to give, there are pillows to be fluffed, favorite blankies and toys to find. The house is quiet but for us, filling the time and the space with our awkward, humanness. If we cry, the dog tries to soothe us and that feels so selfish, so we try not to. But we fail.
Somewhere, a dog is dying, and if we’re very lucky, it’s not our dog, not this time. But we’re reminded that it will be, eventually. It will soon enough be our dog.
Somewhere, a dog is dying, and with it, a little piece of someone, some helpless, sad, person, is dying too.