These Days

Frida

Well, I've been out walking

I don't do that much talking these days

these days

These days I seem to think a lot

About the things I forgot to do for you

And the times I had a chance to -- Jackson Browne

Can't you see I'm sleeping?

I'll slip into a nice breathing pattern, eyes shut, mind floating in that beautiful dream space and, bingo! He'll say, "Come on, let's go."

I get it. He needs to move, to walk, to stretch those knobby hairy legs. My part of the deal is go with him, care and watch out for him. I'd hate to see him slip, trip and fall. I can't pick him up but I could fetch help.

I open my eyes to let him know I'm awake. Just give me a second, would ya. Sometimes he acts panicky, like I might be dead.

He's really not a bad guy. Once we're on the sidewalk his perspective broadens, and the smells for me are rich, fragrant and abundant. Good reading material.

We're both in our twilight years, a time to slow down.

This ain't no race, you know, a contest to see who arrives there first. I mean, where's there, anyway? There's no there there. It's an early grave, if you ask me. 

He's gotten a lot better, but it's taken some holding him back. I might be investigating a curious whiff in the rosemary or lavender. So I hold my ground, leash taught. Then he'll start waving his hands and arms like a windmill. His signal to come, get moving. Okay, okay already.

Sometimes he'll stop and stare. At nothing. Or the osprey on the limb at the top of the Norfolk pine on the corner he's so fascinated with. 

I go for the dirt,  the ground, baby, that's where the roots burrow and spread and smells fester. Just follow your nose, that's my mantra. He's an eye guy, his nose as useless as a broken chew toy. I shouldn't say, "useless." Having sensory challenges is sad.

Yesterday we met this new guy he likes to shoot the breeze with. I knew they would hit it off and it took some maneuvering on my part to push them together. They smell alike. I don't think they know that. They believe it's mental, a meeting of the minds. Right.

Granted, they're both oddballs. 

The new guy's name is Harry. Not Harold or Harrison or Hari Christmas, for god's sake. Just Harry. I meander toward him instinctively knowing they will click. the convergence of two wayward stars.

I brush my shoulder against the guy, with the subtlety of an artful dodger. Some guys would step back. My move can be interpreted as aggressive unless performed gracefully, which I, in all modesty, know how to do.

Harry shows kindness, shoots me a glance followed by a pat and hug. Touch is the thing. I can read a touch seconds before it happens. We're standing at an overlook with a view of the beach.

"The waves look good," says Harry.

"Yes, they're getting some good rides," says my guy.

"Do you surf?" asks Harry.

"I try to keep my feet wet," says my guy.

I roll my eyes. He's obsessed. We're down here day and night checking the waves. He'll never stop talking about it now. I fold my legs and ease my tired body onto the cool, luxurious dirt. My turn to wait. He needs the human contact.

Osprey with a catch

Rewind.

I know she needs to rise, keep moving so she won't freeze up, I tell myself, as I look upon her languid, peaceful body. tail curled beneath her.

"Come on, it's time to go." I'm really doing this for her. She's aged and slowing down, you know.

I see her hind legs struggle for purchase. I lean over and help by pulling her up, her foot pads slipping, toes splaying on the hardwood floor beneath her. She weighs about 70-lbs. I feel a twinge in my back.

She'll only walk about a block; it's a matter of which direction. I don't want to wear her out. She loves sniffing the rosemary, so I head inland, ambulate slowly in mother-may-I baby steps. I take a moment to check the osprey who's become a neighborhood celebrity.

I've never seen him catch a fish, but he has soared overhead, his broad wings spread, a fish dangling from his talons, swooping low before arriving atop the telephone poll on the corner for a bird's eye meal. I can't take my eyes off the majesty of the predator. 

My walking partner doesn't notice. Too busy sniffing scents of her brethren who have marked territory along the way. She pauses, points her regal nose, stares into space. In dim light, early morning or late evening, I wonder if she's caught the scent of a raccoon. Maybe the spell of a memory or deja vu.

Poor girl. She's practically deaf. I signal her by waving my hands, pointing and gesturing like a road worker directing traffic. It really seems to help. She gets it.

Her regularity has changed in her old age, which means I need to carry plenty of doggie bags for emergencies which could happen at any impractical time or place. The other day it happened in the middle of the crosswalk with a motorist waiting, watching, his foot patiently pressing the brake pedal. 

Hey. I'm simply caring for an old girl who needs a little assistance. I think she's as embarrassed as I am. Most drivers understand. I think she does, too. Understand, that is, how I care for her these days.