“I’ve seen a few of the test results and your dog’s desperately ill.” Hearing those words from the critical care clinic veterinarian and realizing that my dog might not live pierced my heart. “I’ll be back in just a minute,” she said, leaving the room.
Short as the walk that ends the night
“You’re a good girl. Now behave yourself.”
I tighten the leash, stop a moment to catch my breath, bend over and pet the dog. “We should be able to finish our walk, then I have some things to take care of before I, ‘make it to the church on time,’” I hum.
We each march to the sound of a different drummer; it may be an age thing, but for unknown reasons, I seem to be drawn more and more to the beat of the past. The rhythm goes on, but it’s slower. On a Danube River cruise my Jackson friends and I had disembarked from our ship, the Viking Jarl, and were now in Prague.
There are some things that seem to be part and parcel of who we are, of whom we become. Memorial Day is one for me.
This is the time I make a sentimental trip out Clinton Boulevard to pay respect to the brother-in-law I never had the privilege of knowing.