Owing to the illness in the air that year, they sent someone to kill our dog. They did it in the backyard. We did it in the backyard. We were forbidden to set foot in the veterinarian’s office. It was April of 2020. They used two shots: one to put her to sleep, the other to stop her heart. We took turns holding her, telling her truths: that she was a good girl, that we loved her. Then the first shot, in the folds of her fur, and she fell asleep in my mom’s lap for the last time while we pet her, one after the other. The top of the head down the back, to her tail. A motion done so often it suspends the sense that there will ever be a last. Top down. A smoothing of fur, a slowing of breath. Again and again.