Part 1: The Morning My Dog Wouldn’t Stop Scratching at the Door

earlier. He moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden motion might shatter what little strength he had left. He barely spoke. When he did, his voice sounded distant, hollow. The nights were hardest for him, and sleep rarely came without struggle.

Most mornings, I woke before the sun. I would sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug that continue reading …