My girl,

You have served as nursemaid for months now. Today, you are the nursed. 

You went to bed last night scratching behind your ear as if your brain itched. But it couldn’t be fleas: I check your thick auburn coat like a hungry chimp weekly, and you and Charlie both  down or spritz NexGard regularly, as prescribed.

But when we woke today and I gave you the morning ear rub, my hand came back wet. You had scratched a bald spot behind your left ear, and I could see the laceration, nearly two inches long and covered in red bumps and puss.

I called your vet’s office, which said the wait would be 2-4 hours. Your walker suggested another clinic, and off we went — with Charlie in tow. He’d rather panic in company than solitude. Who wouldn’t?

After a 45-minute wait, the doctor confirmed an infection from punctured skin. Perhaps you played too hard and were bit. Maybe scratched. Whatever the cause, you never made a sound.

That is, until the doctor saw you. You wrenched and whimpered so much the vet, who was at least 200 pounds, had to sedate you to examine you. 

Seeing you in fear or pain is hard to describe. It chokes me up, even in memory. Especially in memory.

You have always made eye contact with me. When I’m wincing from the busted back, I usually look up to see you staring, sympathetic and silent and still.

Today you gave that gaze, this time for suggestion. How I wish I spoke dog. How I wish I could explain that you are going to be fine save for pills, antibiotic spray and a cone you must wear for two weeks.

How I wish I could tell you that you won’t be able to go to the park for 14 days — or 3 ½ months in human time. I forget that your life speeds at seven times the speed of mine. Maybe that’s why you live in the moment so.

Now it’s my time to be here, immediately. The mat you slept next to, you will sleep on. We will take meds on the same  timetable. We will recover jointly. 

And Chuck, you were a champ. You are officially a support dog, government licenses be damned. I’ll help Jadie learn the geometry of conical living. You point out the Snausages. 

And when that cone comes off, younglings, we will storm the park like fucking Vikings with a score to settle.

So have a seat, baby. Or a bed. It’s my turn to fetch.