The worst part of a vet visit
is when the doctor
pokes me in my rump.
Keen on making sure
I'm not the only one
miserable, I nip at him,
but he just comments
on how thin I've become,
so I feel weaker.

Hooman #1 is very concerned
when she asks the doctor
what tests they could run.

Then they take me away
from her, wrapped in a towel,
and poke me with a needle.
Blood comes out.
Other fluids go in.
I listen to Hooman #1,
weeping behind the door.

When they bring me back
to her, she sniffs, rubs
her eyes, and smiles
to greet me, to let me know
it's okay
when we know it's not.

We sit in the room awhile,
Hooman #1 petting me,
as I let go of my worries
of Babylonians,
gathering intel,
shepherding hoomanity—
none of these things
are my burden anymore.

Now I live
to consider why
I am alive.

The vet returns with papers
and explains my anemia.
At my age, it's normal
to develop cancer in the blood.

My brother, Da Loker,
was also taken by cancer,
but his was a tumor
that led to many others.

Hooman #1 doesn't try to hide
her tears from me anymore.

The vet prescribes
steroids to boost my appetite
and help with pain.
When they no longer
provide me quality life,
we will say goodbye.