Tuesday, April 16 early evening
One gin and tonic later.
So much around us is poison to some, delicacy to others. The gin I love I would not feed my child. The foxglove I order into bouquets I would not make into tea because it might kill me, yet digitalis, which is from foxglove, has been saving my father’s life every day for twenty years. The brownies we ate last night did not kill us, but they killed Astible. Dogs must not eat chocolate, especially in the amounts Astible ate. The vet figures she ingested about eight ounces. A half a pound. That’s got to be an entire pan of brownies! We can’t figure out how she found, much less ate, an entire pan of brownies when there was a whole plate full on the table that we shared.
Last night, after Dr. Van Fleet called him with the autopsy, Professor Sergeant and I walked around the building and the dumpster we share with the church looking for evidence that Astible had vomited anywhere, but we found nothing. How she came to be in my garden will remain a mystery until it is no longer a mystery. My neighbor says he will find out and perhaps he will. I wouldn’t know where to begin.