Zeke: Fallin’ Forward.

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Zeke, in his Countdown, stumbles forward.

We pinch the drip tube on the meds. He’s woozy coming down, he grasps for his footing.

The morning 5-milers, have been cut to half-milers, or less, this routine interrupted indefinitely.

A rash here, a rash there, in the most personal of his private parts, all swollen and inflamed from being scratched raw. (Is there no mercy?)

His left eye, now red and goopy, fails him badly in snatching nuts tossed from a few feet. His depth perception askew, his jaws pathetically snap at air.  He can’t see them.

He limps, his back foot drags a broken toe, an affliction caught chasing a friend he could not catch. His muscles atrophied, his bones snap like twigs. (This is painful to watch.) [Read more…]

T.G.I.F.: It’s Been A Long Week

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Source: Themetapicture.com

 

Saturday Morning

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If you love home—and even if you don’t—there is nothing quite as cozy, as comfortable, as delightful, as that first week back. That week, even the things that would irritate you—the alarm waahing from some car at three in the morning; the pigeons who come to clutter and cluck on the windowsill behind your bed when you’re trying to sleep in—seem instead reminders of your own permanence, of how life, your life, will always graciously allow you to step back inside of it, no matter how far you have gone away from it or how long you have left it.

~ Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life


Photo: Your Eyes Blaze Out

Zeke. The Countdown.

zeke-dog-pet-cute

I walk Zeke outside.

He sniffs at the grass, at the plants, at the trace of bunny in the air.

I watch him circle the yard: It’s gone.

The vigorous flourish of the tail. The accelerated gait, his canter. All gone. In its place, the all-consuming lethargy.

The panting is incessant. His barrel chest rising and falling, a steam engine chugging, The Little Red Engine That Could: I think I can, I think I can, I think I still can.

He’s parched, always. His long tongue stretches to lap up gulps of water.

And Dad, “I’m hungry. I’m always hungry. I can’t help myself. It’s those damn white pills you wrap in the lunch meat.”

The steroid dosage has been lowered, his normal surefootedness slipping.  Another stumble up the stairs this morning, his head lunging into the hardwood –and then, a soft, helpless yelp.

Water from a tap drips.

No one is ready for this. No one wants this.

This shot clock is running out.


Related Posts: Zeke

T.G.I.F.: It’s been a long week

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Source: gifak.net

T.G.I.F.: Be happy you’re here…


Rosie is a poodle-whippet mix who likes to bounce, an activity she takes very seriously. Here she is diving joyfully into a field of tall grass. Her owner is English comedian Adam Buxton.

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

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Come on…give it up. You smiled. Good Monday Morning!


Notes:

Saturday Morning


Source: Hobo Lunchbox (via Your Eyes Blaze Out)

Switchback: From Bliss and Back

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A vicious switchback,
the bliss of last Saturday Morning,
to a routine checkup with the Good Shepherd Vet,
to this.

I clench my jaw while he opens his.
The steroids, tiny pink buttons, are wrapped in lunch meat.
He swallows the care package whole, nose up, sniffing for more.
“Sit!”
He sits.
The medicine dissolves, his belly warms from the Buttons.
His glassy eyes look up drawing up Hirshfield’s Hope and Love:
“I know that hope is the hardest love we carry.” [Read more…]

Saturday Morning

vizsla-dog-pet

Zeke nestles up tight, his back to my chest, resting his nose on his paws. My arm wraps around his sternum, his heart beats on my finger tips, low and slow. His brown eyes, Full, are On the window. His nose twitches, Bird.

The air offers no resistance to the morning rush of robins, sparrows and finches. Bird song floods the room.

Man and his bird dog. Domesticated, fattened calves, gorged on Comfort. Thousands of years of Evolution to arrive here, Now.

Roof, walls, comforter, bed, Warmth.

He drifts. His eyes, a mirrored pool of melancholia, flash back with longing to a time of his ancestors, running in the Hungarian woods flushing grouse – tails pointing to the drumming beat of wings.

A soft wind gust rattles the blinds. He turns from the window, looks up at me and sighs, as if to recite Stafford,

“Breathe on the world. Hold out your hands to it.”

~ DK


Notes:

  • Photograph: Cara Olinger with her Vizsla (via I Can’t Stop Reblogging)
  • Related Posts: Saturday Morning and Zeke Series
  • Posted inspired by Whiskey River share: “When one lives with birds one sees how the noise level of the birds keeps up with the noise level of the house, with the wind that begins to whisper and whistle across the sidings, with each notch up you turn the volume dial on your record player. It is the rumble and rasping of the inert things that provokes the vocalization of the animals; fish hum with the streams and birds chatter in the crackling of the windy forest. To live is to echo the vibrancy of things. To be, for material things, is to resonate. There is sound in things like there is warmth and cold in things, and things resonate like they irradiate their warmth or their cold.”  – Alfonso Lingis, The Community of Those Who Have Nothing in Common.
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