In the Dry Leaf

I have an old cat. Chris Clarke at Creek Running North has an old dog. And so we could exchange a glance as full of wordless knowledge as this:

Through it all I have cherished the subtle love of an elderly dog, the gentle glances and the hours of staring, his eyes bound so tightly to my heart that he can wake me at four in the morning just by watching me from across the room. I would not trade these days for anything. His sweetness is solace.

Lucky is blind, so there can be no glances. He is almost totally deaf and swivels his head in the wrong direction if I call his name very loudly. He is frail, arthritic, and often in pain. But I pick him up -- as light as a dry leaf skeleton -- and lay him over my shoulder, or lie down on the bed with him on my chest, and he rubs his face against mine again and again. I thought he had lost the ability to purr, but he's got it back again.

Very old age is not all loss. Even as you mourn the young animal, juicily, heedlessly embedded in life (Chris describes this beautifully), the old one draws out a unique tenderness that is like nothing else. There's a refinement and a purity of communication. Presence and ease can no longer be taken for granted, so each day, especially each good day, is a surprise gift. I felt this with my uncle in the last months of his life, and I recognize it now with my cat.

Thanks to Chris for saying the almost unsayable.

Comments

[AMbivaBro]

Truly beautiful. And one of the reasons I miss having animals in my life.