I’m sleeping a lot lately, nodding off even in broad daylight and finding it so hard to wake up that she often has to prod me, usually gently, then coax me to stand and take a few stiff, shaky steps out of my soft, comfortable bed. Of course, I also wake up of my own accord at the worst possible times — in the middle of the night after everyone else has gone to sleep or early in the morning before they rise. I can’t help it, though I wish I could, and usually she doesn’t complain when she comes to help me. We both know it’s just where I am at this advanced age.
Right now, though, I feel like I am sleepwalking as she helps me outside for a stroll, an idea I resisted but one she insisted would be good for my joints and my frame of mind. She is right. My eyes, like my hearing and my body, are not so good anymore but this time of day — dusk — is suffused with the muted gold of the sun going to bed and punctuated by the bright phosphorescence of fireflies blinking awake. I cannot not see it and it wakes my senses.
She, too, is enthralled, stopping us on our ambling saunter to stand still and simply look... and also to listen as the harsh vibratos of the summer cicadas that have been calling all day subside and are replaced by the night songs of croaking tree frogs, rasping katydids, and chirping crickets.
I am usually not so enamored of pastoral scenes — I've always preferred smells and sounds that excite me rather than pretty sights that soothe me. But right now I want to take it all in and do that with her.
“You like it old boy?” she asks me as we both sit down in the grass. She wraps one arm around my neck and shoulders and pulls me closer to her. I lean into her.
“We should both enjoy it while we can,” she continues. “We’re not getting any younger.”
She’s right. I don’t know her age exactly, but we’ve been together for as long as I can remember, and I’ve heard her say I am eighty-seven in “dog years.” That’s a ripe old age for any mutt.
I know she will rise soon and lead me back to the house and settle me onto the pad that smells like an old wet dog. That smells like me. And I have a feeling that there won’t be many more times like this for me, that any day now — if I’m lucky — I won’t wake up. But for now, this is worth getting out of bed for.
— Katjack
Right now, though, I feel like I am sleepwalking as she helps me outside for a stroll, an idea I resisted but one she insisted would be good for my joints and my frame of mind. She is right. My eyes, like my hearing and my body, are not so good anymore but this time of day — dusk — is suffused with the muted gold of the sun going to bed and punctuated by the bright phosphorescence of fireflies blinking awake. I cannot not see it and it wakes my senses.
She, too, is enthralled, stopping us on our ambling saunter to stand still and simply look... and also to listen as the harsh vibratos of the summer cicadas that have been calling all day subside and are replaced by the night songs of croaking tree frogs, rasping katydids, and chirping crickets.
I am usually not so enamored of pastoral scenes — I've always preferred smells and sounds that excite me rather than pretty sights that soothe me. But right now I want to take it all in and do that with her.
“You like it old boy?” she asks me as we both sit down in the grass. She wraps one arm around my neck and shoulders and pulls me closer to her. I lean into her.
“We should both enjoy it while we can,” she continues. “We’re not getting any younger.”
She’s right. I don’t know her age exactly, but we’ve been together for as long as I can remember, and I’ve heard her say I am eighty-seven in “dog years.” That’s a ripe old age for any mutt.
I know she will rise soon and lead me back to the house and settle me onto the pad that smells like an old wet dog. That smells like me. And I have a feeling that there won’t be many more times like this for me, that any day now — if I’m lucky — I won’t wake up. But for now, this is worth getting out of bed for.
— Katjack
Moved me to tears. Beautiful
ReplyDeleteAwww... a masterpiece of anthropomorphizing! I do like that "any day now — if I’m lucky — I won’t wake up." This critter doesn't fear death like humans do. But yeah, it is kinda sad and very loving. ---Macoff.
ReplyDeleteMy old dog never complains either. Sniffing, snuggling and sleeping make her day...and eating of course. Wonderful read. Opelikakat
ReplyDelete