Mount Shasta, March 14, 2004: Today is bright and clear and the air fresh, promising Spring. Our dog Tulip, retrieved from the animal hospital with terrible blood tests, spent a bad night. Tulip cannot sleep, will not eat, throws up bile. Her body is failing; overnight she is ancient. Thin and gaunt, she shivers and trembles. Tulip is dying.
Because of blood and bile, she had to sleep in the kitchen. She wanted her own bed. She wanted her life back, but that life is gone now, fading as we watch.
Today she visited beside me in the office. This is her job, and comforts her, though she shivers, gasps, rail-thin.
I had to lift her up the steps. She is weak, and fading.
Adrienne and I spent much of last night, and most of today, sitting with Tulip while she is dying.
Tulip fades.
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