My sixty-five pound Labrador retriever is on the same estrogen prescription as my grandmother and when we tried to figure out her age last fall, we couldn't remember how to do it. But we came somewhat near that of the other pill-swallower in the family. I'm the one who forces the blue pill down Daisy's throat as my brothers don't like the gag-cough that occurs immediately afterwards, when her front feet are spread apart as her head lurches forward. I don't know how much she minds, but she does know there is always a biscuit afterwards, always a kiss on the forehead and a conscious scratch behind her ears. She understands I'm sorry.
Daisy likes to go outside after midnight.
I'm not sure if her bladder has the need, or if it's simply a habit now, but she whines next to my ear to rouse me. And when I'm in the proper position to fall easily asleep, I know I must throw on red fleece over blue plaid pajamas and find running sneakers hidden under my bed which I bought this summer with visions of fitness, and I know I must go with her. I don't mind being with my dog outside tonight, for it gives me a chance to smoke a cigarette or two away from my non-smoking mother's only fascist tendency and tonight is warm for coastal Maine in January. As the dog I've missed and I walk the streets of our neighborhood, the sand left over from the snow plows makes the only sound as our feet crunch upon it. The streetlights are on and the fog gives them a dull glow as it muffles their force.