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AFTER RIP AND I have taken one last, quick walk up and down my street, I tell him he can sleep in my bed tonight, something for which he’s always angling.

I’ve decided to let him sleep there, sand and all.

I’ve got no strength after what’s just happened on the beach. I’ve already put Rip at the end of the bed, which is where he knows enough to stay, and not push it.

The cleaning people coming tomorrow afternoon can worry about the sand and sheets and blankets and general dog mess. Ben Kalinsky is taking Rip while I’m away, for as long as I’m away.

Back inside, I go into the kitchen and fix myself a small glass of Irish whiskey, even though I’m not supposed to be drinking hard liquor these days.

But what the hell, I tell myself. You only live once.

Right?

I take my glass into the bedroom, take a sip of the whiskey, and leave it on the nightstand. After I get under the covers, I see Rip staring at me all over again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.

He makes a sound like a grunt.

I take another sip of whiskey. It goes down nicely. Probably the time of the night as much as the taste. My father always called it sipping time, when he was the one with a glass of Jameson in his hand.

“I did the right thing, whether you think so or not,” I say to my dog. “This isn’t the right time, if there even is such a thing for me anymore.”

Rip keeps staring. He’s almost as good at wordless communication as is Dr. Ben Kalinsky—the man I just hurt, as much as I love him.

“I’m going away in the morning,” I say, “even though I’ve been hiding my suitcase from you; I know how you get when you see a suitcase. And this trip I’m about to take is the only thing I have the strength to deal with right now, not what just happened on the beach.”

Dog’s giving me nothing. No advice, no sympathy, no encouragement.

Nothing except the hundred-yard stare.

“Okay, I’m going to stop talking,” I say.

Rip grunts again.

“But let me leave you with this,” I continue. “Weddings are supposed to be happy, and this one would just be too damn sad.”

I finish my whiskey. I am even too tired to take my glass back into the kitchen. I just close my eyes as I hear the soothing sound of the whistle from the late train heading west. A few minutes later, sleep comes easily for a change, which is both a surprise and blessing.

In the morning, my sister, Brigid, a cancer patient herself—it runs in the family along with stubbornness—will once again drive me to Kennedy Airport, where I will board a flight to Geneva and the Meier Clinic, where they’re going to take what they say is their last, best shot at saving my so-called life.