Guardedly Optimistic

It has been exactly one week since my daughter called me and told me that Bug was sick. It has been exactly one week since I had any hope that the dog would actually survive.

Oh, I have said that she would. I have prayed that she would. I have managed to convince most of the people who love her that she would.

Today, I actually have hope.

Today, as I sat on the floor, she lurched, lunged, and staggered her way over to me. She managed, with much difficulty, to lower herself next to me and put her front paws across my lap. She stayed there panting and puffing like a fat old woman who had just clambered her way out of a deep-cushioned chair.

I could feel her muscles relax one by one. Finally, she was calm and relaxed and as at-ease as she has been for a while. Then -

she picked her head up and looked at me.

Her head did not quiver. It did not wobble. There were no visible tremors running through the veins on her head.

Her eyes were focused and her head was steady.

I cried and she licked me.

I am guardedly optimistic.