As you may have ascertained from the title, my dog is dying. He’s in the hospital, 3500 dollars into what I can only describe as desperate attempts to extend his life. Foxy, 10 pounds of fur, a ginger Pomeranian who’s mom died in child birth, leaving him more human furbaby than dog. I’ve been holding back the tears, stemming the flood, telling myself the doctors will figure it out, he will be fine. I bought him on my birthday 8 years ago, my mom was frantically trying to pull me out of my black hole of bulimia and depression. I was 18 and despondent, I had stopped caring whether I lived or died a year earlier while at our summer house in Germany a close relative had raped me. I hate that word, such an ugly word, worst of all sometimes I wonder whether I deserve to use it at all. He was my friend, but I saw the way he would look at me. Anyways, a dog didn’t cure me, but it was something, something for me to hold on to, a creature with no ill intent. What makes me sad now is that I did not love him enough while I could, I got so wrapped up in my own life that I took him for granted, and now it’s too late an I’m staring down the barrel of an ending. I always cry until I can feel my soul leaking out of my body when I’ve finished a book or a television series. I want everything good to last forever, but I think deep down I’ve always known how fleeting those things are, the things that are good, and happy, that make us feel just right. This is why I am terrified, why I protect myself, guard my heart, it’s not a strong one. Even fiction can break it. But this isn’t fiction, my sweet innocent dog is suffering in pain, all alone at the clinic in what will be one of his last nights on earth, all because I don’t do endings well. The only comfort I can find in all of this is that all living creatures want to live, I have to believe that he would want to be able to come back home again. I don’t know, my heart feels heavy tonight like it’s pushing my stomach down into my intestines.