[sniffs]
My dog, Daisy.. well, my parents’ dog, really, but the dog I grew up with, and the dog who comes to mind immediately when canine ideals of perfection are discussed, is dying. She has perhaps six months to live.
I remember bringing her home in a laundry basket when she was a little tiny puppy – it’s hard to believe her entire life has come and gone.
I mean, it’s been a good one. She’s been happy, healthy, and boisterous her entire life. Even now, from what I hear, she still acts perky and healthy – it’s only the blood tests which say her canine days are numbered.
My mother says she looks at each day of the short time remaining to Daisy Wogdog as a gift. I suppose all of our days and hours and minutes of life are to be looked at that way. But still..
Why must everything die?
S.