Sheba's belly hung lower every day with the burgeoning life of growing puppies. Meanwhile, Bruno, my tired, beloved St. Bernard, grew weaker and feebler. We didn't allow him to follow me out on my walks anymore. He could hardly keep his back end upright for more than a few minutes at first; as time went on, he could lift the swaying dead weight of the hips and rear legs up for only a second or two before they collapsed under him. Sweet Bruno wasn't a whiner though...he never got crabby as some dogs in chronic pain would. Occasionally he would manage to get out of the house (where he was now allowed to stay despite Denis' ban on indoor pets, simply because he was so old and in such bad shape, and besides, he never got into anything) and would try to follow me. I'd look back and see the trusty old dog dragging his hindquarters through the snow as fast as he could, trying to catch up with me, leaving the snow smeared with blood in his wake. The most heartbreaking thing about it was that he seemed to think it was worthwhile to go through all that just to be with me. Ah, to be truly worthy of such love and devotion....Getting him back to the house was just as bad because he was far too big for me to carry. It became clear that his days were dwindling and I spent a lot of time brushing out his thick coat while he lay on a blanket next to the woodstove. And then one day he was just gone. They said he'd followed me on one of my walks and didn't return, but I later found out they'd taken him out and shot him to put him out of his pain. It was the kindest thing to do, but I think we both deserved a chance to say goodbye.

I loved Bruno more than any dog I'd had before and more than any I've had since. In his absence, I curled up with Sheba on the floor and felt the puppies writhing within her. I prayed and prayed that one of them would be Bruno's, just one. I tried to imagine what it might look like, which one of the wiggling lumps might be his puppy. I asked Mom and Denis if I could keep one of the puppies if it was his, but they couldn't imagine how one of them could be his, anyway. Mike/Raphah smirked knowingly at me behind their backs...I made a face at him.

Mark came up to the Lake for the weekend (indeed, I'd seen his headlights from my bedroom window as I stayed up late with my books and microscope). Mom and Denis had been acting sort of weird about Mark lately. I couldn't quite figure it out.Anyway, they admired him and it was nice to have intelligent, cultured company, so Mom wanted to make him a cake, and I wanted to learn how to cook. The trouble was, we had almost nothing to bake with. There was almost no flour, no butter, none of the things you need to make a cake. So under her instruction, I made a cake with farina and only a very small amount of flour. We used some of our own plum jam (made with free plums people didn't want to pick last fall) to drizzle over the bundt-shaped cake after it was done, and it looked pretty nice. After dinner (which was probably just lentil soup or venison stew, but Mark never complained, being always a gracious guest) we gave him the first piece. He liked it so well he wanted the recipe, and Mom and I were left looking at one another helplessly, for we couldn't have made another just like it if we tried!

At times I grew very depressed, feeling stifled and constantly controlled to the nth degree by our family and our increasingly constrictive beliefs. Outside of our family, Mark was the only person I had to talk to. Only, it was funny, these things didn't need to be said. He somehow knew and understood. Mike/Raphah and I clung to him as if to a life preserver, even though we were silent much of the time and rarely disclosed much in the way of forbidden family secrets (in other words, anything at all). On one occasion, we were riding in his car, and I was so depressed that I was thinking to myself that it would be easier to die. But I didn't say so. Out of the silence, Mark started talking about how sometimes it was harder to live than to die, but that it was worthwhile to live. This sort of silent understanding, an ability to see beyond the facades, to say what mattered and to comfort us when we needed it most, endeared us to him.