I left Toby in the room with my girls – his girls – to take care of the paper work before the vet came in to do the kind thing.

Between signing documents and receipts, a man brought in his exceptionally gravid English Bulldog in active labor.  She was rushed in for a c-section.  The exchange, the swapping of a worn out life for a brand new one, or maybe three or four, was tangible.

Toby was ready, and when we were, too, it was done.  He fell asleep on my chest and woke up down the hall, or maybe under someone’s porch, or in a warm kitchen.

Swollen eyed and snotty, we emerged from the examination room.  Before we left the twenty four hour vet clinic, I slipped the Bulldog man a napkin with my e-mail address and phone number.  If he ended up with a puppy who needed a home, could he contact me?  Please?

I hope he doesn’t call.  I made Toby a promise.  I’ll never adopt another dog until I can love it the way I’ve loved him in the last few weeks.

It won’t be soon.