We’re all varying degrees of broken
The other night I helped my elderly dog get under the table to scrounge for crumbs, Holding his harness so his back legs wouldn’t give out It just seemed like if you can’t scrounge for crumbs when it’s your favorite thing to do, What’s life made of? But I’m not ready to make the executive decision that his life isn’t good enough to live Though each day he seems to lose more and more. At 3am I hoist my pregnant belly out of bed when I hear his whimpers To find him stuck behind a potted plant Unable to lift himself up on the hardwood floor “I hear you, buddy,” I whisper in the dark, awkwardly stumbling with his harness Trying to avoid knocking my own girth into the ZZ plant branches I have 8 or so more weeks to go and it’s a miracle I’ve gotten this far, With a success rate of 1 out of 9. 11%. 11! It’s such a low number. If nothing goes wrong now then I’ll be 2 out of 10. 20%. What a fucking circus. I panic every other hour thinking the baby hasn’t moved enough Tha...