I gave away my mother’s dog last week. My family thinks I’m a monster now, and honestly, some days I wonder if they’re right. But there’s something Mom said to me last night, one little thing, that none of them know about.

And once I tell you, you’ll understand why I’ve kept my mouth shut.

Let me back up a little.

Biscuit is a golden retriever. Nine years old, eighty pounds, the big goofy kind that knocks your coffee off the table with his tail and looks proud of himself for it. He wasn’t even Mom’s dog, not at first. He was my dad’s. Ray picked him out as a puppy the year before he passed, and after the funeral, well, Biscuit just sort of became Mom’s shadow. And here’s a thing I never forgot. Every single evening, right around five o’clock, that dog would go sit at the front door and wait. Wait for a man who wasn’t ever coming home. We all saw him do it. Nobody ever said a word about it.

Anyway. I moved into Mom’s house seven months ago. Pancreatic cancer, stage four. The doctors gave us a number, and I won’t say it out loud because it’s a smaller number now. I’m the one who’s here. Me. Not my sister Diane, not my brother Greg. I crush her pills twice a day. I change the sheets when she can’t make it in time, which is most times now. I sleep in the recliner with one ear open. I’m not telling you that to get a pat on the back. I’m telling you because it matters for what comes next.

Here’s the part nobody wants to hear. Biscuit needs walked twice a day. Eighty pounds of dog needs a real walk, not a shuffle to the mailbox.

I couldn’t leave Mom that long. And about six weeks back, Mom stopped knowing who he was. She’d look at that dog like he was a stranger off the street. One Tuesday he jumped up on the bed like he’s done a thousand times, just wanting to be near her, and she screamed. Screamed like somebody was breaking into the house. “Get him out, get him out,” over and over, grabbing at the blanket. I’ll never get the sound of it out of my head.