It was a late afternoon in November, the sun low and the desert hazy with dust. The doors of the Road Runner were open to the concrete patio, where Ned Breem sat at a wrought-iron table with Hanson at his feet. The dog, a Rottweiler mix, was in heart failure — no infection, no virus, no heart worm, no lung issues, no kennel cough. That was certain now. Glenn Puckett said it was hard to say how long Hanson would live or in what state. Death could be sudden. If it weren’t sudden, and the dog was suffering, Glenn could come out to the house to put him down. More humane that way. Let him die on his own bed.
Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt was printed on a brass plaque in the waiting room, above the flea and tick shampoos, the worm medications, the grooming supplies. There are tears in all things mortal. That was what it meant. Ned had asked Glenn about fifteen times before managing to remember it.
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