Resting by my side, his breathing is a bit less labored today than it was yesterday.
I hope the fall’s coolness will help relieve some of the difficulty that dogged him through the summer’s heat – and yes, that pun was fully intended.
At nine, Toby still acts like a puppy. But mostly now in spurts.
You’re more likely to catch him taking a quick snooze next to me while I write rather than find him offering his favorite shredded and wet toy to throw.
His eyes remain sharp, his hearing strong. And he can still summon up any amount of courage to defend us against all manner of flying, hopping, crawling things that make their way into our house.
That last fly never had a chance.
Does he understand anything at all about time? Does an hour make any more difference than does a day? Can he sense that tomorrow may never come for either – or both – of us?
I find myself becoming more like him every day.
The need for rest. The unending search for a quiet, warm, perfect spot in which to nap. An undeniable preference to interact with others only from behind a screen.
And time enough for nothing but today.
Actually, he’s become more like me.
Image Credit: Own Photo (Toby)
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