No patience for the pacing. The guilt my anger my snapping. He stands there next to me back turned panting and I hate it hate this way we start the day the edge to my mood immediate his neediness and the sounds of the city outside kill me kill our ease of ten years together. He shakes so much he cant stand, panting so hard I get seasick holding him. Rosie lies and watches us from her bed, ears down. It’s been too long, the panic, the stress, the hard edge to my voice and I hate this getting angry at myself for not letting him be, for not knowing how to help, what to do to ease this state he’s in. CBD. Meds. Thundershirts. Calming treats. Walks. Drives. The last two helps. Leaving him in the truck isn’t an option in the heat but that’s where he wants to be. Rosie stares at me. Harold tries not to. Stevie heads out the window on his own, bloody cats take care of themselves. It’s the guilt at me snapping. The guilt at my anger and impatience. I can’t do this. I can’t write. Can’t work from home in the mornings which is what I’ve done for years and now this, his pacing whining, fear and neediness that drives away all ability to focus on writing or research. I can’t work. He shakes and waits for me. Loves me. Still. And my heart breaks as his shaking touches me.