In the sky with diamonds

Sunday. The shaggy brown-black dog lumbers out from the garage. She moves slowly for her eight years, but with a simple appreciation for a beautiful day. Grass still green in early November. Clear skies. Bird song.

“She’s living on borrowed time,” my neighbor tells me. The words are quiet, heavy.

I scratch the dog’s head, and her black-rimmed eyes shine. Her tail wags. She seems unconcerned about the debt.

…

Friday. I’m at a café enjoying pancakes and hot chocolate. Conversation drifts around the sunny room. When my phone vibrates on the table, I answer it. My neighbor wants to know if I can let Lucy out next week.

“Of course,” I say. She’s such a great dog, it’s no trouble at all.

“Great, thanks. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

…

Sunday again. Even more beautiful than the last. Warm enough to make me take off my coat, but with a chill on the wind that raises the invisible hairs on my arms and promises winter’s approach. I wait as Riley relieves himself, then stoop to clean it up. As I stand and tie off the baggie, my neighbor drives up. She slows and pulls to the side of the road — my side, the wrong side. Her window slides down as the car stops. Her eyes are unadorned, making them look small and tired.

“I put Lucy down yesterday.” Quiet, heavy.

I gasp without sound. “Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head, waves me off. “No, no. Don’t do that. You’ll make me cry.”

I nod, and she drives away.

I stand there for a moment, then remember the leash in my hand. The dog — my dog — still very much alive. We continue our walk up to the empty field. I let him run. I tell him that today, right now, he’s allowed to be bad. I promise I won’t even yell.

Later, when we’re home, I feed him breakfast, then wash my hands. There, standing at the sink, I finally allow my tears. Just for a minute. A little bit of borrowed time.