She ran into the back of my legs the other day. I was taken aback. It was rather dark outside and she didn’t see me on the sidewalk. Not once has she slammed into anything - walls, screens, or glass doors, even as a puppy, because she’s sharp as a tack in every way. She’s still sharp. Lightweight, bouncy, agile, quick. Her eyesight intimidates. No cataracts, just Lenticular Sclerosis.
I had to lead her away from the pond waterfall this week.
Lately, she’ll skip by me and sit in the middle of the floor looking for her mother. “Here I am, Chlo. Mommy’s here!”
Red, green, and blue squeaky balls are easier to chase on beige carpet. She is embarrassed to lose the whites and yellows.
“Oh, lighten up, Michael. We’ve been laughing at her for twelve and a half years. Why stop now?”
The little vixen still streaks through the house with my undergarments or potholders dangling from her mouth. And we laugh.
He sleeps lighter than I and caters to every sound she makes overnight from under our covers. At her first yawn, stretch, or whine, he rolls out of bed and invites her for a drink of water. At 3am, I feel the bed bounce and hear, “Come on, Chloe, wanna go pee-pee? OK, girly girls, let’s go.” Lights on. Bella wants to join the party, too. Truth is, neither of them needs attention. Hearing his invitation, I open one eye, pull the covers over my ear, and mumble, “Oh, it’s 3am, let’s have a party. Leave me out of it. Let me sleep.”
When I’m waiting for them to return to bed, I feel compassionate.
When she’s unable to find her way, I’ll lead her.
When she’s unable to walk, I’ll carry her.
When she’s ill, I’ll sleep cozily on the floor with her.
When she weeps, I’ll weep. And I’ll hold her.
Until then, my little vision-challenged vixen still likes to wiggle and giggle. Me, too.