Wednesday, June 26, has been an emotional day. I hung up the phone. The boss grabbed me and gave an adamant hug when he saw the look on my face and granted my mood to get out of the store for a while.

      EZ was scheduled for an emergency surgery to drain her infection, to work up cultures and see just what was causing her discomfort. The Vet called me at work early afternoon to say she was currently under anesthesia; a different direction to her cause was needed. The infection was denser, "less granular" than expected and had grown larger since a week ago.

      Without saying, "biopsy," I knew that was his plan, and the world shifted.

      Results will be back by Friday or Saturday, Monday at the latest. But there's little doubt about what it will show. So I escaped to the car and cried.

      I picked her up from the Vet at 4:45. She had "pooped herself earlier because of the drugs," explained the girl at the desk. She'd given her a butt bath and felt bad EZ was wet, until I explained that that was her preferred condition. EZ lurched drunkenly out of the back room, heading straight for me. I crouched and massaged her ears and she seemed vaguely relieved for it. Out the door, her weaving and unsure and grievously hindered by drugs. I said "okay" and she jumped toward the back of the open car but only got half of herself in--the back end just tried to do it right, so I helped. Brought her home and she collapsed on her blanket. I went back to work.

      Christ! I don't like seeing a respected good girl half-witted and out of control, unable to be capable, bewildered by drugs and dying. I hate this. I know all about tragic loss and death and losing loved ones and self-respect through life's no-fault scheme of things. I hate that. I hate hurting for her, knowing that she's been in more pain for much longer than I'd realized--winter months and April months--when I thought she was merely lethargic from winter or old age, or whatever else couldn't be blamed.

      I don't want to be reasonable and forbearing and philosophically gracious about life and death. I don't want to listen to co-workers say--who really mean it--"Gee, that's tough," who've known EZ through hardware store windows on payday mornings, sitting in the sun in the car and watching for my return. I want to shake them and kick them in the crotch, and scream that this is about ME and my loss and my sole companion who likes me and licks me and doesn't give a damn about terrorists or hatred or shopping carts blowing out of Wal-Mart's parking lot loose on the wind and unreasonably crashing innocent cars at Hardees. I want to run.

      The Vet agreed there is no treatment. She's lost five pounds in two weeks, because she couldn't tell me six months ago she didn't feel so good. The rawhide bone she always loved to thoroughly chew through has sat untouched beside her blanket since January or February. I thought she'd just lost interest.

      "We can keep her comfortable with pain medications," he said.

      But for what? Why? I know she's dead soon and already suffering.

      Damnit.

      I drove in the driveway tonight a little after 8:00. It took a few seconds, then I saw her confused face appear through the screen in the door. I got no grin. I said "G'woit," which is our code for "Good Girl." She disappeared. I went in and she looked up from her mat, a little more alert than earlier. I petted her head. And wondered how all this could be. She moaned. Then whimpered and gasped and dropped her head asleep between her paws. Never does she sleep like that.

      Goddamnit!

      Opened the bottle of Rimadyl pills and the can of good-tasting dog food the Vet said would help flavor the pain tablets if they were crushed to a powder. Mixed both around and set the goop in an ice cream dish, with a maraschino cherry on top for fun and called her over. She sniffed, then decided she had no interest and laid down. I considered calling the Doc's cell phone number. But sat down in a chair and worried instead.

      In a few minutes when her moans got to me I dabbed some of the stuff on a finger and held it to her. She licked. Licked. Then licked another bigger finger-full off a little finger. And again. Then licked the bowl clean and it was all gone and she slept, and is still sleeping now on her rug six feet near to my desk.

10:29-

      EZ is sleeping. Though painfully, with occasional whimpers.

      I'd requested she get a manicure while she was under anesthesia. Her claws have gotten too long and could not be trimmed when she's awake because the nerves have grown too long and she yips if I snip. She was also due for a rabies vaccination so the desk girl suggested it be done while she was unconscious and unable to object. The claw clip was performed but not the rabies booster, which is a good enough indicator to me that the Vet saw no long-term need.