Prescott had a good day today but he's not long for this world. For some reason it's prompted me to recall the first time I lost a dog:
It was morning; although one that started so much earlier than usual the boy couldn’t guess the time; both darker and colder than it was whenever he awoke at his real home. It was never difficult to get up when he was here, which was fitting as it was also never easy to sleep. This wasn’t his room, his bed, or at that time even a ‘bed’ at all. At least he had sheets now; but the sheets were washed with some soap that smelled decidedly different than anything he smelled at home. Sheets that were washed with a working man’s jeans, t-shirts and socks, then hung on a line to dry. They were neither soft nor smelled of anything pleasant like flowers or a mountain meadow. When he got up that morning, just like two weeks ago, these same sheets would be taken off the couch, roughly folded and put on a their shelf in the hall closet, ready for his next overnight stay in a couple of weeks.