Every day is a fresh day for Sparkey. He stills greets the days the same way: sleeping heavily on our bed which is now covered with his fur, then loping to the toilet or water bowl for a drink, followed by plaintive looks inquiring regarding the timing of his morning constitutional. Morning interest in food is minimal, although his desire for a roadside salad of grass is now a given. He knows where the grass is most tender, and he never hesitates when the mood strikes him.
While we're at work, our dear friend walks the dogs each afternoon, leaving us entertaining notes detailing canine observations. Evening walks are slow and thoughtful, with lots of sniffing, probably gathering olfactory data vis-a-vis the other dogs and animals which have passed through the neighborhood in the course of the day.
It's days like these that cause me to deny that he's sick, imagining a few more years like this. Right now, Mary's on the screened-in porch, typing on her laptop. Sparkey just had a drink and then returned to the porch, taking a moment to stare intently into Mary's face before laying down on the wool rug. Tina prances through the dining room with a large, partially disemboweled Barney doll in her mouth. Her brother won't play with her anymore, but her inner puppy still rises to the occasion, her sheer joy reflected in her gait.
These spring evenings when it's warm enough to be on the porch, Sparkey raises his snout into the air, his nose twitching ever so subtly as the evening breeze carries the riot of scents which entice his highly sensitive nerve-endings. He can't hear most of the sounds of the neighborhood, but those olfactory guideposts floating in the ethers tell him all he needs to know about his environment. It's a quiet night. Lovely.
We are so blessed.