Every day I average 1-2 hours sitting on the floor, covered in soft, meaty dog food. My little Pachi has decided to be quite the prima donna about her food, and I, being the dutiful push-over that I am, crawl after her offering handfuls of mush, swipes of peanut butter, tempting treats.
I cry. I beg. I plead. I yell. She is both deaf and indifferent, so none of this matters much to her as she sniffs my outstretch hand, unimpressed with the offerings. By the time I leave for work my knees are covered in fur, my eyes are red and my breath shallow. My fingers seem to permanently reek of a scent the can declares is “lamb and rice.”
She is old, my dog, and getting older. She pads around the house, casually disoriented, she turns towards the wrong house returning from a short walk, she trips on the stairs, she waits at the hinge side of the door. She is happy, and I remind myself each day that more than anything this is what really matters.
The anger at her food refusals doesn’t last long. It isn’t real anger. Just sadness. She stares up at me with guileless brown eyes, unimpressed by my sob of relief when, 75 minutes in, she chows down like she has just noticed the food in front of her. I love this damn dog.
There are thoughts and fears here that I’ve tried to write a half dozen times. I can’t. So Pachi and I will just sit quietly on the floor together, and you can imagine us playing with our food.