Welcome

We arrive, check-in, grab treats. They expect us. The staff does. Maybe not the residents. We see few no-dogs-allowed signs posted on room doors. We proceed, knocking first to announce our presence. We know little about them. Nearly nothing, except that have a better idea than most of us about when they're going to die. To be accepted, their cancer must be end-stage. No asking for more treatment. To be accepted, their means must be empty bank account. No savings for paying for oneself. We sit, my dog and me, with several people who live here. One points to a picture of himself as a boy with his brother and dog whose name he no longer remembers. Another tells a story about escaping a mad dog with a bullet in its shoulder. A woman opens a coloring book. She likes crayons, but prefers pencils. "It keeps my mind off why I'm here," she says. "Stop by again. It might not be me you see." Yes, I know, I reply with a nod, not words. The average patient stay equals twenty-one days. Our return needs to be prompt to see anyone more than once. We reverse our arrival steps, inserting a water-bowl pause for a dog now thirsty. Outside, he minds not at all the rain falling on his back. A waterproof hood covers my head. I remove it and lift my chin towards the sky. The water drops feel good on my face.