Molly looks good for a hundred and nineteen, though
her fur has thinned and her pace slowed, and she hasn’t
heard a word I’ve said in years and it seems the twenty-
two hours of sleep she needs and the fretful yelps at my
touch mean she’s slipped into the fog of doghiemers.
This morning when I offered a breakfast of something
she’d never had before, knowing that though she can’t
name the presidents in descending order she does recall
that whatever she ate last won’t be touched again, so I
must invent enticements to continue the grim charade
of eating, a habit she misplaced like a buried bone,
she turned up her nose, as though the mundanity of
chewing, swallowing, and living were just too much, and
I pushed the meat into her mouth like I did with Momma
in her last days when she didn’t know me or why I’d
come to torture her with crackers and cheese and the
nutritious drinks that always made her gag up half of
what went down and all I could do was hope the half
she kept would buy another day and another round of
crackers and cheese and the panic that choked me when
I told her again and again how much I loved her and
lied through my teeth when I said she didn’t have to
stay if it was time for her to go because I would never
not need her though every time she asked my name a
piece of me crumbled. It’s hard to explain to a deaf
dog that it’s not for her sake that I want her to eat
but for mine.
©Dana Hughes 2.26.16
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