holding on

“How is he doing?” People ask. Multiple times a day. 

There’s the short version: He’s holding his own. 

The longer version: Yes, he’s holding his own, and I watch him every day to see how he might be experiencing his life. Do his ears perk up when I ask if he wants to come up on my bed at night? Does he move his arthritic haunches with a bit of enthusiasm for the food put down in his bowl? 

What do I see in his face, his eyes? Is he still connected? To me, to being outdoors?

He recognizes when I am preparing to take him on the long drive to the vet hospital for his treatments. He stands and looks at me without moving. Even when I call him and lift my voice.

“Let’s go! We’re going outside! We’re going for a walk!”

Um, no thank you. His eyes are not eager, his feet do not move. There is no bounce in his step when we get to the car. He knows what we’re doing, and he’d rather not. 

People say “He’ll let you know.”

So far, I think he’s still in it. He’s still eating well, drinking well. He doesn’t cry out in his sleep or moan when he navigates the stairs. 

Mostly, I think he’s still here for me. I am his person, and he is loathe to leave me. 

I hope I will know when it is time to let him go.