It’s Sunday morning. My coffee is lukewarm. It’s cool outside, but not cold. Warm enough that my senior dog opts to plop down in the corner of the deck, rest her nose on the bottom railing, and stare off into the distance.
I’m not sure what she can see. She will be 15 this summer. Her eyes are hazed over. When she was a bit younger, this was the spot from which she’d wait patiently for a squirrel, or a chipmunk, or a bunny to emerge so that she could excitedly bark at it for no reason, ultimately saving me from impending doom.
I think she may just enjoy the light breeze of the cool air. She’s overdue for a shave. Her coat is long and fluffy with random tangles. The breezes catch her fur, ruffling it atop her head in much the same way I do.
No more groomer for her. The last time she went she seemed to have forgotten where she was and became distressed. She’d been going there since she was just a wee pup.
Perhaps she’s reminiscing about the days of her youth. She seems content, so I leave her be for a bit while I fetch a fresh cup of coffee.
It’s quiet this morning, even for this later in the morning hour. My girls are spending the weekend with their significant others. It would likely be quiet even if they were home. They’re late sleepers. Night owls.
I catch sight of my dog struggling to get up from her corner spot on the deck, set my mug down on the mantle and step outside to give her a boost. Her legs are weak. Her hips and knees arthritic. She’s still a happy girl. Such a good girl.
She follows me back to the bedroom and stands in the doorway to observe my next move before deciding on her own. I set my mug on the desk. That’s her signal I guess, to settle in for the duration.
This morning she chooses my bed. She splays herself diagonally across the bottom corner of the mattress and promptly falls asleep. Her little snores confirm.
All is calm and right in this moment.