One Simple Breath

My wife was haranguing me to get to the dinner table; we were already running late. “Wait a minute,” I said from the entryway by our front door. “I think she’s going.” I didn’t want to come back after dinner only to find that a beloved member of our family had already left. My instinct told me to stay with our dog. It was a very good thing I did.

It was yesterday evening, Monday, and our 15-year-old golden retriever, Marron (Spanish for "brown"), seemed to be hyperventilating as she lay helplessly on her side on a blanket just inside the front door of our home. We’d had an emergency house-call visit from a doctor of a nearby animal hospital earlier in the day — the second such visit in the past few days.

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