The dog can barely walk. He wobbles and falls. When he stands up, he tries to shake as he usually does, and finds himself right back on the floor.
He vomits constantly.
When he manages to walk, his head is tilted at a strange angle – as though his neck were broken.
He lies down, and when his eyes are open, they are constantly twitching and turning, rolling and trying to right his vision, which, from the looks of it, is spinning violently.
He stops eating.
The only slight sign of hope is that he still drinks water.
It is hot, by Seattle standards, so he sleeps outside in the grass until there is no shady spot. He wants to come inside, so I carry him to his water, and he has a drink, and then lies on the floor next to his bowl for many hours.
Saturday morning comes, and I am allowed to sleep late.
I don’t want to sleep late. I want to be pestered awake too early. I want to take him for a walk before I’ve had my coffee.
My neck aches from sleeping on the sofa to be near him. I know I cannot help him; the only thing I can do is reassure him that I am with him. His person: the one he has spent nearly every day of the last five years velcroed to the side of.
The pain is excruciating. I cannot turn my head.
He and I lie still, together.
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