Unsure

Unsure what to say, to you, to anyone. My beloved Nina dog is dying. Only she knows if she is dying slowly or not. She is now almost completely blind, or at least that’s what the vet thinks, and is how it seems to be. She has an open sore on her graying face that won’t heal. I come home to find stained circles of blood, blood rings, pressed into the linens of my bed, the upholstery of the couch, wherever she has been sleeping.

Unsure how to proceed. She only eats some days. She’s drinking too much water, a sign of something not good, says the vet. Sometimes, while she sleeps, she wets herself—my pristine first daughter, who never before had an accident in the house. 

Unsure. She is still delighted to be with me, and I with her. She can still get up, barks happily upon my return, loves her walks. She bumps into any furniture that’s shifted position, bumps hard into doorframes, but she shakes it off, keeps to her path. There is—of course—a new caution about her.

Sure of this: Today I am going to take her on a walk alone without her brother, in the woods. I will let her off leash, because I know she will stay close. I will stay close. As she listens for me, I will listen for her, try to hear her, try to understand where she is on her journey, the one that is leading her out of my life.