Aging

"The dog is outside," my husband informs me, as he walks through the kitchen one last time, before going to work, and happens to see the poor dog on the back porch.

"Please let her in," I reply.

"How long has she been out there?" he asks.

"I don't know - 15 minutes?"

Getting defensive I say, "It's nothing short of a miracle that I'm only as crazy as I am, and not any crazier. I can't hold a thought in my head, and it doesn't help that try as I might, I'm constantly interrupted with absolute minutiae."

We laugh.

"Blog that," he says.

And it's true. I should be a lot crazier. 

Poor Flicka Link comes in, after waiting way too long at the door, patient and obedient as ever. 

I see Flicka aging almost by the day, now. I saw that with my mother-in-law, too, each time I saw her that last year of life, she was noticeably older. It's like that first dramatic year of life, in reverse. 

We have non-slip rug pads on all the stairs - inside and out. She sometimes needs help getting up and down them, and we keep that to a bare minimum of times each day. Next step will be moving a twin mattress to the floor of the living room, and sleeping in there with her. She needs to sleep next to me, and I need to fulfill that need. 

Flicka has had a long life of faithful service, some we know the details about, and some we don't. She can hardly see due to cataracts, and has trouble hearing. I think there may be some dementia going on - she seems confused. She is full of large, benign tumors, and her legs give out on her. She could, ironically, use a guide dog right about now. 

I will be her guide.