This excerpt from The Sex Tourist (Book Two – Chapter 5 – The Plan), like many other parts in this book, is real life. Download the first six chapters for Free here: or buy it on Amazon:

Thumb is fading fast. He won’t last a month; not even close. The dog who was so keen to roam around in the parks or in the woods each and every day, … is looking at me with all his sadness when I invite him for a walk. He just drags himself further from the gate. His body is crumpled, he’s pushing, but the only outcome is a few drops of blood. His back legs are shaking. I have to lift him into the footwell before Dad drives to the vet yet again.
The vet tells us that it’s our choice. She says Thumb is suffering like hell and has maximum two more days to live in constant pain. Even without my study and practice, I would know that she’s right. I sign. I don’t even read a single word on the paper. I just sign. Dad signs too and goes to reception to pay. He’ll wait for me there … The nurse comes in and asks me to lift Thumb up onto the table. He’s light like a snowflake. He lost at least a third of his weight in the last month only. The vet is in front of him, the nurse is in the back, and I’m in the middle, holding his lead and stroking his head. Thumb’s glowing gaze is aimed towards one solitary target. He’s looking into my eyes. He doesn’t care about anybody else around him. My eyes are the only objects of his focus. I’m his goddess. I’m going to save him. I’m going to take the pain away. Tomorrow we can go for our walk again. I figured out what’s wrong with him and we’re here in this room to cure him at last.
Rock solid conviction, unconditional and boundless love and unlimited trust radiate from those two almond buttons. This gaze of his is burning into my memory right now, and I know it is going to stay with me to the end. The prick of the needle in his leg makes him twitch a bit, but he wouldn’t turn his head. That needle is obviously a technicality, needed to cure him. My tears are rolling, but I keep on saying “good boy,” and I keep on stroking, caressing, and fondling him.
My soul is screaming. My dear little Thumb, my first ever pet, please don’t leave me! My sister is dead. … What’s the point of living in an ever growing void? These losses are irreplaceable. They make death creep into my heart too.
I had the privilege of teaching you how to sit on the curb before we cross the road, how to give paw, how to stay where you were, how to lie down, how to fetch…I visited you many times even after I moved back to Hungary. If Dad struggled financially, Lily “lent” me the money for the airfare, so I could clean your house and your trays, take you for long walks, take you for a swim to the lake, and of course groom you, so in a matter of hours you could become the most handsome dog in the neighborhood again.
Only in these moments, when those two almond brown orbs are still fixated on me, but they’re starting to lose their shine, and when you begin to feel drowsy and want to fall asleep, only in these moments I realize how big a lesson in life you make me learn. I was proud of you and I was proud of myself. But right now, when your eyes are closing, when your body is going limp on the table, and when I’m taking the collar off your scrawny neck, everything is bursting to the surface. I didn’t know. I never had a chance to learn this when Lily … died. You showed me how much I have to appreciate my loved ones around me. I didn’t fully recognize the true worth of your trust, your faithfulness, your loyalty, and your love. Now I’m losing them all at once.
When the vet says in a low voice “he’s gone,” it strikes me: I’ve failed you at the end. Dad and I made mistakes. Right from the beginning there were signs and we ignored them. We should have tried those alternative diets twelve years ago when we saw your occasional runny tummy during long walks. We might have been able to save your life and extend it with those vital two to three years. I’m holding on to your lead as we walk out, and my dad is explaining with faltering voice how your ashes are going to be scattered in your back garden. We get in the car. He’s driving and I’m crying – inconsolable.



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