Amelia’s murmur turned out to be a lot more than that. Funny that the person who knew the human heart so well had one that went and quit on her. Now mine is, too. Maybe it’sthe drugs they’ve given me, but there’s a strange sort of comfort in this.
“Is there something he can take?” asks Miguel. “Medication? A special diet?”
“I’ll definitely be sending you home with meds and a long list of diet and exercise modifications. Even so, he’s fourteen. That’s past the average lifespan for a Brittany-setter mix. It’s honestly a wonder he’s made it this far without an incident. Judging from the echocardiogram, this is a chronic issue that’s gotten worse over time.”
Miguel’s face is twisted up, and he sniffles. “He’s been sort of off for at least a month. I’ve even caught him wandering around at night.”
Wandering? How am I just now hearing about this? I remember that one time, but I had no idea this had become a habit. I’m mortified.
“I didn’t bring him in—” A sob catches in his throat. “Because I was preoccupied. I’m so stupid. I should’ve made an appointment.”
“It’s okay,” the man assures him, and I take back every sassy thing I’ve ever thought about vets. What a kind person he is, handing Miguel a tissue and directing him to the plastic chair against the wall of this tiny, terrible-smelling room. “A month probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I don’t know if several would’ve, either. Besides, if he wasn’t having symptoms, we wouldn’t have tested for it. He’s old, and sadly, this is often what happens when dogs get old. What’s important is that you know now, and there’s a lot you can do to make him comfortable.”
I try to twist to look at him, assure him I’m okay, but my body feels so, so heavy, and I can barely lift my head.
“Easy, Harold.” Miguel’s at my side again and using the voice he used with Amelia when she was sick. “The drugs in your system are confusing you. Just lie down. I’m supposed to take care of you, remember?”
No, Miguel.You’reconfused. That was not the deal I made with Amelia.
“Keep talking to him,” says the vet. “They understand more than we can possibly imagine.”
You don’t say.
“It’s going to be okay. You took a tumble down the stairs and got banged up pretty badly. We think you passed out.” Miguel sniffles again. “I know you don’t like this place, but it’s a good thing we got here as fast as we did.”
I whimper because my throat and mouth refuse to work the way I want themto.
His voice catches. “When I saw you at the bottom of the stairs, I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, buddy. I promised Amelia I’d take care of you, and I haven’t done the best job of that.”
Yes, he has! But why, when that’s whatIpromised her?
“I know you’re old, and that you can’t live forever. But dog, I need you a little bit longer,” he whispers. “I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet. Okay?”
My lids are growing heavy again, and I’m so very tired, but I force myself to stare into his eyes.
I’m still here, Miguel,I tell him.And that’s where I’ll be until I figure out how to get you to the other side of this.
—
When we get home, Miguel tells me I can have whatever I want, so long as it’s not chocolate or poop. This is a lovely offer that I would be pleased to take him up on, were it any other time.
Right now, however, I have few desires. Of course, I’d like to return to Lakeside as soon as I’m able. I want to roam among the shelves and sniff all the wonderful not-brand-new books and, in a perfect world, happen upon Amelia Mae reading stabby stories in the yellow chair. And naturally, I long to curl up on the braided rug that I still remember my Amelia hauling in and placing in four different areas before realizing it was always supposed to be beneath the window, where the sun can warm it—and me. I will never not relish those pleasures.
But all that’s dimmed by my overwhelming need to sleep.
Miguel sets my bed up in the living room near the bookshelves and brings me some mashed chicken soaked in broth. I can’t manage more than a few bites, but it’s delicious and almost makes me forget how terrible I feel. The vet gave him a gate that he’s placed at the bottom of the stairs, like I’m some sort of toddler. Then again, I mistook the second floor for a buffalo jump, so maybe it’s for the best.
I’m groggy. Whatever pain medication they have me on makes me feel like I’m crawling my way through the hours—not that I’m moving all that much. When it’s time to use the bathroom, Miguel has to hold me up with this shameful sling contraption. “It’s that or doggy diapers,” he tells me as he props me over the grass and waits for me to pee. “I think we both know this is the more dignified choice. You’ll be able to hobble around soon, but not yet, dog. Not yet.”
And indeed, when I arise the next morning, I’m already doing better. My head’s not so fuzzy, and I’m even able to get up on my paws. I’m excited to show Miguel how much I’ve improved, and that he really doesn’t need to worry about caring for me. I’m good.
There he is now! He stoops to examine me. “I’m relieved to see you’re on the mend, Harold,” he says, ruffling the fur on top of my head oh so gently. “You were my wake-up call, so I owe you.”
Is that so? This wouldn’t be the silver lining I would have selected, but I’m in no position to be picky.
A shadow crosses his face as he stands. “It’s time to accept reality,” he says.
Maybe, but the only thing the man’s facing right now is our bookshelves. He scans them momentarily, then plucks out three hardcovers. Jonathan’s super serious author photo is staring at me from the back of the bottom copy.
