Tonight my old man dog snoozes with his ears poking up. I wonder if he’s dreaming of when he was a pup. This long suffering hound has seen me through so many bad boyfriends. They’re gone, but he’s still around. Farting. Snoring. Inexplicably licking the carpet. Still wagging his tail, half mast, as he wobbles on arthritic legs, still pulls the leash a little at the sight of a squirrel.
He was the cutest puppy – honestly – little carmel coloured puff ball with blue eyes. He was a lovely middle aged mutt – despite his penchant for a constant hump. But it is this relaxed slow half blind time of his life that I find I love him the most. Maybe because he sticks a little close. His senses are going so he likes to be near. Plunks himself down right under my feet as I wash dishes at the kitchen sink. Children dashing through with too much speed. The Fellow and his great big feet. All stepping over this trusting tender animal with a tail who has plunked himself in the most inconvenient place possible. And we let him. There is grace for the old one.
One of the children in particular will lie on their side and stare into his light milky eyes and pet him until enough fur is collected on their finger tips to suit up an entirely new dog.
He reminds me: be gentle with each other. Stick close. We’re all half blind to some things.
