Loki is getting old. A little deaf now even. I sometimes have to clap or stomp to give him some directional bearings. He can sense my presence, perhaps by smell, but he sometimes instinctively assumes I'm inside the door. He doesn't come for breakfast any more, sometimes he doesn't even realize there is already food in his bowl when he finally rouses. His eyes have the murkiness that comes with age. He has white now showing in places that were orange or tan before, along his face. He will turn around and lean into mean again and again when I am trying to channel energy into his hip, giving him a healing ultrasound of reiki.
Snack has become more compliant, more gelationously affectionate. He never fusses when he is picked up, even to move him from a place of rest, but purrs, dropping his weight into my cradle, without even a meow of protest.
And I am amazed at how much more I love them for their growing fragility, and the life represented still in each arthritic step, the ear perk after the event, the interest there, if late. Puppies and kittens are full of what is only furtive delight. The aging pets, even when they're a little grumpier, have a patina, a wisdom, comfortable sharing that makes me long for, rather than regret, what life will be like wrinkled, a little worse for wear, frailty worn with neither resignation nor too much pride, but honorably.
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