Cracked Window

Imagine a world in which our doctors treat us the way veterinarians treat our pets. This occurs to me as I stare at a three-by-two-inch can, the temporary resting place of Bok Choy Tong. The can is painted with red, orange, and blue flowers, not unlike our garden where her remains will be spread.

Before Bok Choy died last month at eighteen, I learned more about her body and health than I know about mine. Granted, my doctor hasn’t treated me nearly as often. But in similar circumstances I doubt he would spend hours explaining his findings. At times during Boychoy’s last year, I thought I was attending an introductory class in feline physiology.