Henry Jones, you deserve a miracle.
Saturday, on the way home from the grocery stores, we noticed Henry Jones was not himself. At all. He couldn't get up in time to see sites that usually arouse his interest outside the car windows. Like doggies and their people strolling. When we got home, he didn't want to get out of the car. His Bertness put on fish in parchment paper. Henry remained enervated. I called the vet, thinking Henry had a simple stomach ailment that would easily be healed with medication. Oh, sweet innocence. Dumb bliss.
When His Bertness returned with Henry what seemed like hours later, he was crying. "Henry is dying." That's what he said. "Henry is dying." Cancer. I simply could not comprehend this. He said the vet had done X-rays. A sonogram. Drawn blood from Henry's stomach. Henry might not make it through the night. I was distraught. Could not stop sobbing. Did not eat the fish in parchment. Drew hope from the fact that the on-call vet made the diagnosis and not own own beloved Dr. Dow. Alas. Dr. Dow called Sunday morning. His news was worse. Not better. The cancer was in the lungs, as well as the spleen.
So. I have not picked the giveaway winners. I will do so. Be patient. For now, for now I am spending every moment with Henry. Henry who feels tired. Crummy. Henry who sleeps. Fitfully, at times. Henry Jones, who has been the unfailing bright sunlight in this town that longtime readers know I want to flee. Dr. Dow says we will have to make The Decision. Right now, I await a miracle. Please come soon. Please.