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This is sick, I am thinking.
I am holding my dead dog in his favorite blanket while my husband dickers with the vet receptionist over the $125 charge. This, after spending more than $500 yesterday on medicines that did not “make him more comfortable so he can die at home,” as the vet promised; diuretics that left him wired, awake, and aware of the fact that he was dying.
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“Please. Please…”
David is stabbing the ground brutally with the business end of a shovel.
We wrapped him up in his green blanket with Vinnie the Pooh, his favorite teddy bear toy he tore one ear off of, years ago when we lived in Michigan. Together we gently laid him in a little box with palm trees and sail boats on it, inside another box, black leather like all the suitcases he was so used to seeing over the years. Now we are burying him in the back corner of the yard, near the plum tree he loved to sniff.
My eyes are nearly swollen shut. I don’t want to part with this box. No way.
David is crying. Hard.
A big wind kicked up and he held out his hand.
I handed him the box.
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