I talk a lot about this guy’s number being almost up.
My old man is 13 going on 14 – he has arthritis and muscle wasting, and this long, hard winter has been less than pleasant for everyone involved. These days, his good days are more and more frequently overshadowed by those where I can tell he hurts despite the doggie painkillers; the days his pigheadded self decides to do something like pee on his bed or in the middle of the kitchen to let me know life sucks. Or he decides that since he’s old and we won’t likely yell at him overmuch, crapping in his kennel is perfectly appropriate retaliation for leaving him in dog jail while we are out for a few hours. Not only is the old guy in his dotage, he’s also (still) a world class ass. Those days, my frustration takes over and I tell myself I can’t wait for the end and a pee-free house.
Then there are the days I see him unable to pick himself up from falling for the 12th time – the ones he snaps at us when we give him help, where I can see the fear in his eyes over falling again warring with his desire to go outside to smell and pee – those are the heartbreak days. The days I talk about his looming demise in as lighthearted a manner as possible.
And then there are days like this – when I look over from my desk at this smiling old man face and fall in love all over again. These are the days I can’t fathom being without him.
Stick around a bit, big man, I’m not ready to let that face go.
Gastography 