by Susan Conant
Zara interrupted me. “I’d never have challenged Uncle Oscar.” With Izzy at her side, she entered the yard. After closing the gate, she unsnapped Izzy’s leash. Rowdy’s eyes lit up. I kept a hand on him and gave Zara a questioning look.
“She’s fine,” Zara said.
The beautiful dogs chased each other, ran giant figure eights, bounded, zoomed, and leaped.
“Zara,” I said, “Uncle Oscar is—”
“Gone. Yes. When Izzy and I left, I thought maybe he was. I wasn’t sure.”
“You left a note.”
She shrugged. “For him or for you. Uncle Oscar and I talked last night. He had a health-care proxy that named me as his agent. He drew it up quite a while ago. Last night, we went over what he wanted and didn’t want. He made me promise that I’d never call an ambulance unless he was in pain. He wanted to sleep away.”
“That’s what he did, I guess.”
The dogs had taken a little break to gulp water from the big dish by the kitchen door. Now they resumed their dashing and zipping and carousing.
Smiling at them, Zara said, “In the midst of death, we are in life.”