He brought her dish to the studio and put it on her mat within inches of her nose.
With her chin on the floor between her paws, she raised her eyes with a look that said, “I hurt.”
Luke, on his knees, scratched behind her ear. “Don’t do this, Limpy. You can’t
give in. You’ve got to get going, girl.”
Her eyelids dropped closed.
“Don’t,” Luke said. “Please don’t.”
She was quiet except for uneven breathing.
He’d give her one more day. Then he’d get Jeb to take them to the vet. She had
to spark up.
When he went to bed that night, Limpy didn’t follow him to the bedroom. He
couldn’t carry her. He left her where she lay in the studio. Once during the night she
cried a long guttural howl. He checked her. She seemed to be asleep. She was
breathing.
During Jeb’s session the next day, Luke wasn’t at his best. He’d cleaned the
accident Limpy’d had and opened the windows. He hadn’t been able to get her to take
another pain pill. She hadn’t eaten. She lay in the same spot, on her mat by the
bookcase, her eyes sometimes open, sometimes closed.
Luke tried to concentrate. He adjusted the score and struck an A flat. “Same
place,” he said to Jeb. “Mahler wrote this line so high for a reason. He wanted the strain
to show in the voice. It’s one of the few places in the whole cycle when anguish breaks
loose. Listen to the hurt in the accompaniment. Read the words, ‘O you, o you, your
father’s heart, the light of happiness, so soon extinguished —’”
His eyes watered. He couldn’t speak.
“You all right?” Jeb asked.
Luke fumbled for his handkerchief. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes. With
an apologetic glance at Jeb, he turned toward Limpy. “She’s only a dog.”
“What?”
“Will you help me take Limpy to the vet? With my arthritis, I can’t lift her.”
At the vet’s, Luke told the receptionist it was an emergency.
TOM'S TALES