Yesterday I did a hospice vigil. In the room with me and the patient was a charming little dog, who was no larger than a cat with stubby legs, and a small, almost cat-like face. Actually, she looked more like a bat than a cat, with her little snub nose and teeny fangs and pointed little ears.
I was quite taken with this dog, who quietly sat there with us, snuggled down in the bed, giving comfort by her warm little presence. I am partial to dogs anyway, and I am periodically reminded of how they have learned to live in our world. They understand our language, and we sometimes learn theirs. My old dog, who is now gone, understood over 100 words and read my moods better than any human I have ever met. My Harry has learned to open the refrigerator and has his own schedule which dovetails with ours. Penny, my wild child, sits on the sofa and watches television after a hard day of playing ball with us. And Nash, well Nash is just dumb, but he wants to be loved by me or Rocky, little realizing that incessant yapping isn't helping that.
Just now I scolded Harry for licking the walls, so now I wonder how much he really has mastered living in our world after all. However, despite the wall licking, I think I'll keep him. He makes me smile.
2 comments:
My mother-in-law died in our local hospice. Miss K and I spent a lot of time in their common area talking with the golden retriever who lived at hospice.
One of our dogs spent six months taking care of Bop. He seemed to know that this was his last chance.
I think animals are more perceptive than we credit them as being.
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