Old Boy’s New Place

Swirl slept downstairs last night.

Coming up the stairs to our bedroom was too much for him, a bridge too far, as they say, even though he has been sleeping on the floor by my side of the bed for as long as I can remember. When I wake in the night, I see him stretched out in summer or curled tight, nose to tail, in winter. If it is raining or the night is odd in any way, he is standing at the window, studying the outdoors. If it storms, if there is thunder and lightning, he paces. He walks a circuit – around the bed, into the hall, back into the bedroom, circling in the bathroom, and returning to the window. When he was younger and less mellow, he’d rare up and put his big paws on me, wake me with his gaping, wolflike jaws.

In the middle of the night, I went downstairs to check on him and make sure there was enough water in his bowl. He lay perfectly still, stretched out in front of the fan which we’d left running, with his roommate, Tempest, laying just a few feet away. She’d eschewed us, her beloved humans, for her truest friend.

This morning, I made coffee, fed Tempest, and let Swirl sleep for a good long while, through two cups of coffee and making orange cranberry muffins. I read part of a book about spring training that was written in 1985. I bought it for a dollar at the library months ago. Finally, it was time to help him get up. He has trouble getting to his feet, has to stand still and collect himself for several minutes, and then can put one paw in front of the other. Slowly, very slowly. It takes the two of us to help him navigate the four steps of the back porch.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s his sore shoulder. Maybe the pain meds aren’t working. Maybe he’s falling apart. Maybe he’ll bounce back in a few days. Maybe he won’t.

We’ve relaxed into the waiting. There’s really nothing else to do.