Sickness has come into our house.
At first it was a small affair: The dog’s recurrent demodectic mange. A small infected patch. And then the patch began to swallow her and she was overrun with sores and scabs. Our house smelled of decay and desperation. Then the dread set in.
But our girl fights her sinister infection. She takes her pills in great fistfuls of yogurt. She bears her cone, her frequent medicated front-yard baths, the couch embargo, weekly shots—without complaint. Her vet has given up the scary bad news voice. We’re spared.
Dread, however, is my frequent visitor.
I’m told this is a normal stage of grief, the worry. I fear every monster lurking in the shadows: infections, fast-moving vehicles, myself. Most mornings I must remind the latter that nothing terrible has happened yet that day. That nothing will. That I, and B, and those we love are well enough—and Magnolia gets better steadily…
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