"Who do we have here?" she asks.

I pinch my finger until it hurts. "This is Lily."

The woman produces a stool from underneath the examining table, wheels it beside us, and takes a seat.

"What's this on Lily's head?" She places three fingers under Lily's chin and raises her head very gently to get a better look.

"That's the octo-" I start to say, but stop. Enough is enough. "That's her tumor."

The veterinarian takes a pocket light and shines it in Lily's eyes. There is no real response.

"Is she blind?"

"Yes. The tumor has taken her eyesight. And just about everything else."

She runs her other hand gently over the ma.s.s and slowly lets Lily's head rest again in my lap.

"She has seizures. Bad seizures. And I think dementia. And this morning she looked at me like she was . . . done." This is the last I can say before I have to fight to speak, to do battle for each individual word. "I want you to take her. I want you to take her and to fix her. I want you to tell me you can make everything okay. To make this all go away. And, short of that, if you can't do that, if you can't produce a miracle, I want you to tell me I'm making the right decision."

There's a panic attack looming. I can feel it. The right decision. The wrong decision. The happy memories. The sad reality. Good. Bad. Up. Down. Win. Lose. Life. Death.

The doctor holds Lily's head in her hands and covers her ears.

"You're making the compa.s.sionate decision."

There will be no miracles.

There will be no tomorrows.

I nod like my head weighs a hundred pounds and make some sort of noise. Pain mixed with acknowledgment mixed with consent.

Again. "It's the compa.s.sionate decision."

My eyes blur.

I'm underwater.

Fishful Thinking has capsized.

I am drowning.

"How does this work?" I already know that I don't want the answer.

"I'm going to take Lily and fit her with a small catheter in her leg so we can easily inject the drugs intravenously. There will be two. The first will render her unconscious. She will be asleep, but still alive. You can have a moment with her to say good-bye. And then when you say, we will inject the second drug to cause cardiac arrest. Once we inject that second drug, it should be over within thirty seconds or so."

"Two drugs," I say.

The woman reaches for Lily, but I don't let go.

"Right now we're just going to find a vein and fit her with a catheter so things will go as smoothly as possible."

She reaches for Lily again, and this time I loosen my grip. She promises to be back in a few moments.

I'm alone in the room and for the first time I can stand. I walk in three tight circles the way Lily does before lying down. Except I don't lie down. I pound my thighs with my fists.

I need to feel pain. Physical pain.

I slam my arm against the metal examining table in an effort to break something. The pain splinters up to my shoulder and it feels good. So good I do it again.

But I don't need to break anything.

My heart is broken enough.

Time stops.

Time pa.s.ses.

The woman returns, this time with an a.s.sistant. The a.s.sistant offers a half-smile but otherwise does her best to be invisible.

The veterinarian places Lily on the table. She's still wrapped in my blanket. Her leg is exposed. I can see the catheter. It is taped in place with plastic.

I kneel down in front of Lily so that we are face-to-face.

"Hi, Monkey. Hi, Tiny Mouse."

Lily chuffs a few deep breaths.

"There is a wind coming," I cue her.

Silence.

There is no Cate Blanchett. There is no response. She can no longer command the wind, sir. She no longer has the hurricane inside of her.

Lily makes one last effort to stand, and that's when I really lose it.

We can still run. We can still break out of here. We can still choose life.

But what kind of life would it be?

Instead, I shower Lily's face with kisses.

"So many adventures we had. And I loved every one."

Lily's head droops and I kiss her again.

The a.s.sistant holds her back legs and I hold her front.

I nod at the veterinarian.

"Okay. I'm going to inject the first drug. The anesthesia. She's just going to fall asleep."

Sleep well, my beautiful slinkster dog.

The anesthesia is fast.

For a few seconds, nothing. But then Lily's eyes open wide as she feels the whoosh of the drug inside her. Then her eyes grow heavy.

She blinks once, maybe twice.

She staggers left.

We slowly lower her to the table, where she falls gently asleep.

"Let me know when you're ready and I will inject the second drug."

"Wait!" I snap.

I'm not ready.

OH G.o.d WHAT HAVE I DONE?.

Why is this happening?

It's Thursday.

Thursdays are the days my dog Lily and I set aside to talk about boys we think are cute. I look at the tape on the catheter, the bandage holding it in place.

Rip the Band-Aid. Quick. It's the only way.

"Okay." I can feel the letters vomit off my tongue.

O.

K.

A.

Y.

I watch the vet insert the syringe into the catheter and inject the second drug. And then the adventures come flooding back: The puppy farm.

The gentle untying of the shoelace.

THIS! IS! MY! HOME! NOW!.

Our first night together.

Running on the beach.

Sadie and Sophie and Sophie Dee.

Shared ice-cream cones.

Thanksgivings.

Tofurky.

Car rides.

Laughter.

Eye rain.

Chicken and rice.

Paralysis.

Surgery.

Christmases.

Walks.

Dog parks.

Squirrel chasing.

Naps.

Snuggling.

Fishful Thinking.

The adventure at sea.

Gentle kisses.

Manic kisses.

More eye rain.

So much eye rain.

Red ball.

The veterinarian holds a stethoscope up to Lily's chest, listening for her heartbeat.

All dogs go to heaven.