On Sunday, I sleep late again. In the middle of the night, he wakes and asks to be let out, and he’s still there when I get up and start making my coffee. While it drips, I check on him in the yard.
He accepts the head scratch and belly rub, and follows me inside.
He drinks his water and then looks at me, expectantly. There’s kibble in the dish; it’s been there two days.
I put some in my hand and hold it for him, a few bits at a time. He eats it and then looks at me.
His eyes aren’t rolling. His head still tilts to the side, but his eyes look like they can focus.
Clearly he can focus, because what he wants in more kibble, from my hand.
I sit next to him on the floor and feed him slowly.
An hour later, The Child appears; she wants french toast. When I start cooking, the dog wanders over and lies down in middle of the kitchen. I move around him and he remains there, insistently.
He wants his french toast, too.
I make one for him, and cut it into pieces. I give him one piece, and put the rest in his dish across the room. He walks over to get it.
He’s wobbly, but he finds his way.
When he’s done he sits in the kitchen, content.
We are both content.
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