Heartbreakingly bad day

I was at work for ten minutes this morning, when a call came from my daughter, who had just been bitten on the face by our beloved dog. It took me a few minutes to get out the door and head for home. (Boss tried in every way she could to keep me on the job--how out of touch can one person be?) When I got to her, my darling girl was a wreck, more because of the mental anguish than the physical pain of the 3/4-inch gash under her eye, itself no picnic. The emergency room was in the same place it always is. The doctor and nurse were exceptionally personable, and we were on our way three hours and three stitches later. The scarring will be minimal.

While we were in the hospital, my clear-headed child arranged for a new home for Wolfie with a group of her friends who adore this big, soft, usually well-mannered beauty of a dog who has been with us for seven months. He'll be loved, indulged, and pampered in his new home with its fenced back yard and always-open door, and we'll be able to visit him when we wish, but you know it's a very different matter when you're visiting the dog you used to live with, right?

Saying goodbye has always been incredibly difficult for me. I can't have a pet in my house who has attacked my daughter. There's no question what I need to do, but, oh, it pains me to imagine telling him one last time that we're going for a car ride, that he's a good boy, and that I love him.