“Manageable,” the vet had said gently. “We can give him more time.”
And I held onto that word like it meant control.
Time.
It turned my life into something measured and precise. Pill bottles lined the counter like quiet reminders. Alarms went off at all hours, telling me when it was time for another dose, another injection, another attempt to stay ahead of something that was always just out of reach. I learned how to hold him still without hurting him, how to hide medication in food until he stopped wanting even that.
“I know,” I would whisper when he winced. “I know, buddy.”
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