The bed got peed on again. I got up to let her out, checked and felt that she was dry, and thought I had enough time to go to the bathroom myself before I put her outside. Wrong.
We went for a walk this morning, which both seemed kind of pointless and… well… we were up and we walk in the mornings so what are you going to do? I let her eat some crap I’d normally never let her eat. And when we got back to the AT&T yard, I took her leash off and let her make her own way home while I followed.
She enjoyed that.
The weight of the word “last” is heavier than I realized. The last walk. The last night. The last morning. The last warm day. The last, the last, the last.
The Red-Headed Kid came over last night to hang out and we told him that she was going to die. And he cried, because he is her friend. Him and the Professor are the two people who would come and hang out with Mrs. Wigglebottom just for her sake or take her for car rides without us. She is the kind of dog who has friends.
My dad told me that they were never certain with Fritz if it was the right time to put him down, because every time I’d come home to see him for “the last time,” he’d perk up and run around and be his old self. So, in a way, I feel fortunate for the wet towels and the ruined sleep schedule. You can’t deny it.