January 2016

     It snowed today. When I woke at 5:30 the porch was speckled with white chips of ice and by 7:00 the entire yard was covered with cold white. Overnight, the last annuals lost their lingering green, leaving behind only empty branches, curled and brown. The house is very quiet. The dog isn’t snoring in Ryan’s bed, the sound of her nails doesn’t clack against the hardwood floor. They’ve grown quickly recently, her nails, as if making up for all the other ways her body is failing.
     I make coffee and watch the snow drift onto the patio furniture I’d meant to bring indoors.
     When we brought Rosie home for the first time she was eleven pounds—two handfuls of oversized puppy. We tried to walk her, but her tumbling feet, combined with the strangeness of the leash, made her give up after a block, and she sat her little self firmly on the sidewalk and refused to budge. We laughed at her, scooped her up, and carried our wriggling little friend where we wanted to go.
     Rosie is ninety-five pounds now and carrying her isn’t an option, but she still shows her displeasure by sitting down. Not heading toward the park? Not interested.
     It’s still funny.
    The snow is falling harder now. Soon the yard will turn into a blank slate, a smooth surface vanishing lost tennis balls, gnawed branches, and unmentionable deposits.
     In a few hours, we’ll bring Rosie home for the last time. We’ll take her from the vet’s sterile cage to the house I’m not sure she’ll recognize. She’ll pace, sleep. She won’t eat. She’s unlikely to drink.
     The vet says it’s a brain tumor. She says we are doing the best thing. We all agreed this is humane.
     I sip my bitter coffee and watch as the snow transforms my world.