We have been saying goodbye to a gentle old dog. Merry is, we guess, 16. She’s lived with us about fourteen years, but was a full grown abandoned stray when we adopted her (or she us?) one Christmas Eve. The other trouble is that Merry isn’t the sick one, her pal Forte (12) has cancer and wasn’t supposed to last this long. What’s he going to do? And my terrier Phoebe is no spring chicken either, she’s 11 and won’t come for long walks anymore. You’d think I’d be better at this, being a hospice volunteer. You’d think I’d know that a dog can’t live to be whatever 16 X 7 is. You’d think. But hearts don’t think and that’s why we have them.
Forte at Merry’s bedside yesterday.
