LOVE TO LIFE

SHORT STORY: LITERARY FICTION | REALISM | IDENTITY | CHANGE

He doesn't ask for much anymore. He just watches me more than anything else. I can still remember the time when I couldn't get a moment's peace.

Hell, I still can't sometimes. The only difference now is, everything he does feels more intentional. Done on purpose. Less spontaneous. It's nothing like how he used to be.

It could be because he knows he doesn't need to anymore, or because he knows I'm paying attention. He knows I’m always right here, ready for whatever he needs at any moment's notice.

He's not wrong. I am here. Not just present, but presently available. No matter what.

He doesn't pester as much either. Not because he’s lost his attitude. No, that part’s still as loud as ever. Although his voice has changed. Not much. It's slightly lower-pitched and full of his version of ownership.

I think he’s just trying to remind me that he’s still in charge. As if I could ever forget that. But he doesn't know that. And so, I let him.

He’s nearly fifteen now.

Wow. I say that as if it makes sense for something that small to hold that much time inside of him.

He’s got no teeth left. Just gums and a tongue that hangs from his mouth. He still eats like it’s a competition, though. Even though I chop everything up so small. So small it’s almost ridiculous. Like I'm preparing a meal for a royal ant. But he’ll still whip up a twister, throw his whole body into it, cough once, and spit it out. Then give me this look, like he’s been lured into a trap. Then he’ll look up at me like, “Well? Fix it.”

And so I do. Every time. And then he'll look at me again, like I saved his soul, before finally walking off like it was nothing, flopping onto his bed, and crying to be tucked in. Only to return ten minutes later barking at the fridge because he wants to go outside.

That’s the way it goes. He barks. He demands. He bosses.

And I love him to life.

I say it like that because, “love him to death” doesn’t feel appropriate. Not with him. I don’t let my mind wander too far down that road, but I don't ignore it completely either.

I know time is doing its thing. His legs strain more than they used to. His eyes started to cloud a little this year. And occasionally, he sleeps harder than usual and I have to watch his body to make sure he’s still breathing.

But in all of this, what keeps me the most stable is knowing that I do everything I can. I mean everything. I pay attention to every sound, every glance. I make sure his bed is just how he likes it. I warm his blankets in the dryer. I carry him up stairs, down stairs, and across the tile if his feet get too cold. I tell him it’s okay when he gets moody. Even when it's inconvenient for me. I never get mad when he’s mean. I just tell him not to worry, that I've got his back.

Because one day, when this room’s too quiet and I can’t hear his nails clicking on the floor, or his earsplitting howl for attention, I want to know… no, I need to know, without a doubt, that I gave him my absolute best. I would know if I was slacking. I can't fool myself.

I want the peace that comes from that kind of love, not the kind that leaves you wondering if you should’ve done more.

⏣⏣⏣

Right now, his little body is a silhouette by the door. I love the way his ears look like question marks, like he's waiting for me to read his mind.

He wants to go outside. I know the routine. He’ll sniff the same patch of grass as always, pee half a drop, then demand to come back in and get a bite of whatever smells like rotisserie chicken in here.

I’ll give it to him. I’ll tear off the tiniest shred, blow on it so it’s not too hot, then place it on his plate like it’s some rare delicacy.

Because it kind of is.

He’s not just my dog. He’s my little stubborn reminder that life is short but full, that love doesn’t have to be loud to be lasting, and that sometimes the greatest thing you can do is to show up, every day. Even if it’s just for something small… something small that needs you.

That’s love. That’s life. And that’s my boy.

And now he’s asleep. Curled up like a pinwheel. He leaves just enough space left on the blanket to make sure I know he could’ve taken more if he wanted to. One of his ears is twitching. Probably chasing something in his dream. Probably, hopefully, winning, too.

I keep the volume low when he naps. That’s the rule. Doesn’t matter if it’s the conversations or my phone, or just my movements in the room. He’ll wake up if I laugh too hard or simply move too much, and then he’ll give me that slow blink like, “Why are you like this?”

So, I sit still and I wait it out as long as I can, letting him rest. I'll scroll or snack or just stare at the ceiling.

I know every inch of this dog. The freckles on his belly. How his nose gets dry when he’s tired. How he never drinks water unless I tap the bowl first. We’ve built a routine that feels more like a necessity. And we stick to it, even if nobody else understands it.

I almost think he’s got me trained better than I’ve got him. Doesn’t bother me. After having spent so much time with him, I know I can trust his decision making… most of the time. Even though he’s older now.

Some days he forgets which room he meant to walk into. I'll watch him wander, then pause, then look back at me like, “You coming?” followed by a head tilt, stiff ears, and a vibrating tail. I always go. I don’t bother asking where anymore, and I don’t rush him either. I just go. Wherever he takes me.

Because the biggest gestures or the grandest adventures aren't always the most important in the long run. I think it’s the little things like these repeated a hundred times a week. The chicken cooked softer than it needs to be. The extra blanket even when the heater’s on. How I hold my breath for a second too long every time he coughs.

There’s a kind of peace in doing it the right way. Not perfect, never perfect… but, right. Like knowing I’ll never have to wish I'd been more patient, or more careful, more present, more anything. Because I already was.

Because I already am.

And yeah, I’ve thought plenty about what happens later. About the crater he’ll leave behind when that day eventually, God forbid, arrives. I do my best not to stay stuck on that thought for too long, though. It doesn’t feel fair… to him. For me to borrow grief from the future when he’s still here now, chasing invisible things in his sleep and stealing bites off my plate like he’s owed them.

I’d rather keep doing what I know how to do. Love him loud while I can. Let him be bossy. Let him be strange. Let him be mine, exactly as he is.

And when he wakes up in a few minutes, he’ll do that thing where he stretches one leg at a time, dramatic like a little old man cracking his bones, then he’ll look at me like I was the one who needed the nap.

And I’ll say, “You good?”

And he’ll blink like, “You know I am.”

And we’ll start the rest of the day.

⟁⟁⟁

We sit outside now. On whichever one of the porches he chooses this time. On sunny days he always chooses the one with the most sunshine. But right now, he likes the porch when it’s late and quiet, when the breeze just barely joins us.

The wind chimes and the birds have already clocked out for the evening. He doesn’t bark, not really. Mostly he just watches. Ears up, body still, like he’s in charge of patrol and I’m just tagging along.

Sometimes I think he’s listening for something I'm unable to hear. Or maybe he just knows this is our time. No interruptions, no expectations. Just him and me in a world that’s willing to be still for once.

I’ve got my drink. He’s got the last of the chicken. We’re good.

I smile and watch him.

His back legs don’t work like they used to, like he’s learning to walk again every day. But he never complains. He doesn’t even know how to. He trusts that I’ll notice what he can’t say. That I’ll keep track of what hurts, what’s changing, what he needs before he needs it.

I keep apologizing. Not to him, but to the sky, or sometimes to nothing at all. They're always quiet apologies. Like, “I’m sorry you’re getting old.” Or, “I wish I could give you more time.” It feels like putting a blame on myself that should've never been “blame" in the first place.

He'll lock his cloudy eyes with mine and it’s like he’s telling me, “I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for now. You’re doing fine.”

And I believe him.

That’s the thing about loving something so damn fragile. It teaches you not to waste what’s in front of you. You learn how to make moments feel full, how to make five minutes feel like a lifetime just because you were willing to pay attention to it.

So we sit.

Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I don’t. In all honesty, I talk more than I don't… but hey, doesn’t matter. My voice is his favorite sound in the whole world. I like to think of it like I'm playing his favorite sound track and he's silently living it up. Because this type of soundtrack doesn't ever grow old. There are no repeated or worn out tracks. There are no moments of mundanity. Because each time he listens it's a new version of the same favorite that he's always favored.

His head rests on my foot, like a pillow made just for him. I’m not allowed to move it. Not even if my leg falls asleep. That’s the deal. I stay still. He stays close. We’re in it together.

And if this is all we'll ever get… these quiet nights, these porch-sitting, chicken-sharing, nothing-too-special kind of evenings… well, then I’ll take them. Gladly. Over and over. As many times as I'm allowed.

Because I’ve come to learn that ‘ordinary’ can feel like ‘everything,’ when you’re with someone who makes it matter. And right now, he’s snoring. Again. Loud. No shame. Like he owns the porch, the sky, and everything in between.

And I don’t mind one bit, because maybe he does.

⟁⟁⟁

He springs into life, zooming across the porch like a flash of toasted lightning.

“LIZARD!” I yell, because that’s what makes sense to say now. And I swear to God, when I do, he grins. A full-bodied wiggle with his tail whipping around. And his prancey little hop in his run like he weighs much heavier than he actually does.

There’s this spot by the fence where the lizards like to sunbathe. He knows and has known it for years. Most days he just patrols it, sniffs, scans, stealth-mode like he’s a spy, then loses interest when they dart under a rock. But not today.

Today, he wins.

I hear the leaves crunch. He’s got something. I rush over, already prepping for some kind of wildlife peace treaty. And there it is, a little tail hanging from his mouth, wiggling like it fears the end is near. I stop, debate on what I ought to do next. He just stands there, proud. Like a kid holding up his Spelling Test graced with a “C,” expecting fireworks.

And you know what? He gets them. He earned them. He’s spent almost fifteen years chasing the uncatchable, trying every angle, every sneak attack, every fake-out pounce he could come up with. And today, it worked.

I don’t take it from him. Not yet. I just kneel down beside him and say, “You got it, buddy. You finally got it.”

He drops it. Not because he’s done, but because he wants me to see it. Like he’s saying, “Look what I did. Look what I can still do.”

The lizard gets a move on and dissappears into the under brush. He doesn’t chase it… this time. He just watches it go, tail-less but alive, and flops down like, “Alright. I’m good.”

We both feel proud.

Later, we split a powdered donut. Not the whole thing. He just gets the soft inner bite I always save for him. He licks his lips, squints up at me like he’s saying, “Told you I still got it.”

And I laugh, powder stuck to my fingers and maybe a little to my face. He’s still got sugar on his chin. He doesn’t care.

He cares for his trophy. Established in our mutual understanding. He's a champion. But it’s not about the lizard. It’s never just the lizard. It’s about the hunt, the hope, the try. It’s about waking up every day with something to chase, even if it’s been fifteen years of misses.

He’s asleep now, snoring again, this time with powdered sugar dusted across his nose like war paint.

And I sit here beside him thinking, “Maybe that’s the point of all this. Maybe love isn’t just about cuddles and soft food and vet bills and porch nights. Maybe love is cheering like hell when they finally catch their lizard.”

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