Then we gather Sid’s
stuff: food, bowls, toys. I throw in a cow hoof for good measure. For some reason,
this is depressing. Is this how it’s going to be when he –
He –
I can’t think
about him dying. I can’t fathom gathering up his stuff, sweeping his fur from
the floor. How do you dispose of a life?
Sid wanders over,
sits on my foot, gives me the look.
Don’t consign me
to the grave quite yet. Have faith in me. I want to stay with you at least a
bit longer. I know I don’t have all the time I would like, but let’s face it:
none of us do.
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