Julie’s Last Good Day

One of these days, perhaps quite soon, it will happen. Julie’s Last Good Day.

It wasn’t long ago that every day was a good Julie day. These days, not so much.


On Thursday, August 5, my dad visited from out of town. We got home from the airport after grabbing some dinner, and she was nowhere to be found.


The next morning — there she was. Out and about. She took her medicine, wrapped in nova, of course. She socialized with us while my dad and I had breakfast. I showed my dad the basement of our new house, and she frolicked around down there with us for a good hour. She looked good, felt good. It was a good Julie day. 


Then around noon, my dad and I hit the road, to the Shore for the weekend. It would be just Angela with Julie for three days. 


“How is Julie? Have you seen her?” I asked the next day.


Nope. 


“How is Julie? Is she eating?” I asked on Sunday.

Haven’t seen her, and not much. 


On Monday, I’m back, and while she comes out to see me, she does not look like she did on Friday. She’s discolored again, and more sluggish, and her mouth is agape, tongue out. I convince her to take the pills, but she doesn’t socialize. It’s as though she wanted to make sure I got back home before resuming her sullen routine. 


It’s not a good Julie day. 


Today is Wednesday, and neither today nor yesterday were good Julie days, either. This morning, I see her around the house, but she doesn’t take the pill when I offer it to her, wrapped in salmon. I’m persistent, lingering around her for most of an hour, but she declines. At least I do hear her begin to purr as I lay there near her, arm extended, with a lox-coated pill in my fingertips. 

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