I am in the crowded mall with jingly-jangly Christmas music and public service announcements juxtaposed with the din of shoppers, marking time while the dog is operated on at the specialist vet in town.
My cellphone rings. The Bristol area code prepares me that it’s the vet calling.
‘It’s not good news about Brin I’m afraid,’ he says, his voice dark.
They are in the middle of surgery. He tells me how damaged her liver is and how poor her prognosis is. We discuss how her quality of life has been deteriorating daily.
As I try to take this all in, he asks if he should even bring her round from the anaesthetic. I stand there quietly crying as people walk past me. I ask them, yes, to bring her round.
And so tomorrow I will be bringing my dog home to have a final cuddle with us, so I can tell her how much I have loved her, before she dies.
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