Black Years

It was last September, a month after our mom died, and I was talking to my twin sister. She said, "You know, next year is going to be another black year." "Yes, I know." For she and I are faced with the same things, almost. Our step-sister had metastatic breast cancer at the time and was getting worse. She had been fighting a heroic battle for years and was slowly losing. Our stepmom is fighting a different type of metastatic cancer, but for now, is holding her own. We share that and the sorrows to come. But I have another darkness flowing my way. Our beloved Tommy dog is now almost eighteen. A Border-collie-beagle, he has been a smart and loyal companion. But I know his days are numbered. I recently stopped taking him on his short morning walk, the walks we have done every morning for sixteen years. His back legs are weak, his front legs are arthritic and he has trouble walking without panting in pain. His mind, ears, and eyes are not as good. So I know that at some point, probably this year, his legs will give out, or something will break down. And then it will be time. Time for us to take the last ride to the vet, as I have done twice before with our other dogs. And it will be a blacker year for me, because I'll be the one to nod to the vet that it's time. Time to say goodbye. And I will cry for Tommy more than I'll cry for anyone else.