Orange fur now creamy beige bleached by hours spent sunbathing. Dark stripes now faint shadows on your scarred face. In your old age you’ve started to drool when I rub your sweet head, and tattered ears. - I stroke your fur, and find my hands dusty. You wear your years like a suit made of earth. Now I find myself looking for the thin veil of dirt on a chair, that tells me you’ve just enjoyed a good nap. - Our home is your personal menagerie. Despite our best efforts, you add to your collection. Birds, mice, lizards, opossums. Like the man in Australia who so wished to hunt rabbits, he released some in his backyard. The opposite of a very good mouser. - As I write this, you’re asleep in my arms, your nose, with one torn nostril, leaving a wet spot on my sweater, and as I write, I pray I never have to look at the hole you’ve dug in our garden, and not see you sleeping in it.