Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. — Edgar Allan Poe, “The Masque of the Red Death” I’m picking up Lightning’s prescription at the vet . . . the new girl, Lauren, is at the desk. I can hear a woman weeping loudly from back in the hospital area. “That doesn’t sound good,” I say. “A husky attacked her dog at the dog park,” Lauren says. “A little Yorkie. Broke its neck.” “That’s awful.” I don’t even have the heart to ask her if she cut the pills on the lines. Read more →