Chuck Schading

Two years after Margot’s hospital bed had been wheeled out of our living room, I still couldn’t walk downstairs in the morning without seeing her on it.

She once called me “the luckiest man on earth” … because I had the esteemed privilege of spending the rest of my life basking in her divine perfection, snoring notwithstanding. She was a hiker and kayaker, and quite possibly the wittiest, cutest book nerd on the face of the earth. By the end though, she was nothing more than a pile of broken bones and battered flesh, with lungs that inflated only when machines dictated it was time to breathe.

She did not speak. She did not wake. But still we wanted her home.

Our dog Daggett was getting on in years then, his once soft golden muzzle now a wiry white, with hips that could barely launch him when he jumped up on that bed and gently snuggled at her side.

We got him from a breeder down near Albany less than a month after we moved in together, a fuzzy little precursor to the child we hoped to have despite our ages. We showered him with treats and ice cream and endless walks, and if Margot could have she would have taught him to speak and learn the alphabet. (But not long division, we both agreed, because that would be ridiculous.

You can read more of this story in Issue 41 of The Literary Hatchet: https://lizzieandrewborden.com/literaryhatchet/product/literary-hatchet-41-double-issue/