Unlike Bud, who knew pain and suffering every day for the first two years of life, Zinnia has been a dog of great privilege.

She was bred by a wonderful and experienced breeder in a clean and beautiful home, treated by a respected and experienced vet, fed and loved every day of her life.

She is all sweetness and trust. She has never harmed a thing in our home,  frightened a human being, showed distrust, aggression, or disobedience.

She sleeps in our bedroom, curled up at the bottom, greets me first thing in the morning with gentle kisses and kindness.

She rides in our cars, eats the best food, walks in the woods, gets the best treats, chases balls with me outside, visits the sheep, and the donkeys adore Bud, and the standoffish Fate loves to visit Maria in her studio.

And whenever I write, she lies by my feet quietly and patiently until I am done.

I am a lucky dog and fortunate to have the dog I wanted and the dog I needed in Zinnia. She follows me everywhere.

It upsets me to be the one to introduce her pain tomorrow for the first time in her life. In the morning, we’re dropping her off at the vet to be spayed.

I have a doctor’s appointment outside of Albany Monday afternoon. Maria driving me, and we can’t get home in time to get her the same day.

We’ll bring her home on Tuesday morning. She’s supposed to be still and confined for up to two weeks (sure), and Monday evening, she’ll wait up lonely and bewildered.

Zinnia is not a complex dog; of course, she will be fine and soon forget those stitches (yes, there will be a hood for a few days). Dogs are not people, and after the first few days of discomfort, she’ll be herself.

I wish she never had to feel pain, but then, dogs and people do not live in paradise, but in the real world. I have my medicine; she has hers.

More than anything, she will miss chasing her  ball outside in the morning.

I’ll miss her, though, and be very eager to see her.