Page 35 of Nightmare’s Playground

I nodded. I did know that.

“The x-rays show pretty significant dysplasia in both joints, and he’s got a fair amount of arthritis on top of it. The left side is worse than the right, which is why he’s favoring it.” Ben dropped his eyes to Murph and smiled fondly. “That’s what’s causing the limp.”

“It’s not…” I couldn’t even say the word out loud.

“It’s not cancer,” he said gently, like he knew exactly where my head had gone. “And it’s not a death sentence, Joy. I want to be really clear about that. This is a management situation. It’s not a goodbye situation.”

All the air whooshed out of my lungs. “Oh, thank the Gods.” That was such a relief. “So what do we do?”

“A few things.” He held up a finger. “Carprofen. It’s an anti-inflammatory. Once a day, with food. It’ll help the pain quite a bit, and you should see a difference within a few days.” He raised another finger. “A joint supplement. I’ll send you home with one, but honestly, any over-the-counter brand will do.”

My lips twitched despite myself.

“Three.” He glanced down at Murphy once more and patted his big ol’ belly. “We gotta get some weight off this guy. Every pound he’s carrying is sitting on those hips.”

I smiled. Murph was what I liked to call a Chunky Monkey. He loved his food. And my food. And everyone else’s food. He just really loved food.

“He eats a lot of string cheese,” I admitted.

Ben smiled, and for once I found myself really seeing him. He was a handsome man. “No more string cheese.” He chuckled.

“And four. This is the big one.” Ben met my eyes. “No more stairs.”

My stomach dropped.

“I live on the second floor.”

“I know.”

“There’s no other way in.”

“I know that, too.” He nodded slowly. “You’re gonna have to get creative. Ramps, a lift, somebody carrying him. But every time he goes up and down a flight of steps, he’s grinding those joints, and if he slips…” He let that hang.

I pictured Murphy, all hundred and ninety pounds of him, tumbling down the steps and felt sick to my stomach.

“Okay.” I swallowed. “No stairs.”

Then I asked the thing I didn’t want to ask, but needed to know the answer to. “How long do you think I have left with him?”

Ben sighed. “If we get the weight off of him and manage his other symptoms,” he said carefully, “he’s still got a couple of good years left. Maybe more. Mastiffs don’t live as long as we want them to, Joy. You know that. But he’s not going anywhere this month, and he’s not going anywhere this year.”

A couple of good years? I knew he thought that was supposed to be good news, but to me it wasn’t enough.

I lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt my face crumple. Murphy wasn’t just a dog. He was like my child.

A few good years? I needed more time than that.

I don’t know how long I sat there quietly crying, but when I finally got myself together Ben was still on the floor with Murphy, scratching the sweet spot under his collar.

“Sorry,” I croaked.

“Don’t be.” He shrugged. “You love him. I get it.”

I laughed wetly.

Dr. Walk—Ben really was a good man.

Twenty minutes later, with a bottle of Carprofen and a tub of joint chews in a paper bag, Ben walked us out to the Jeep.