Thirty-one - Old Dog

The last time I saw Pepper he was old and blind, the white film of cataracts covering his unseeing eyes, forcing him to navigate by a mix of memory and smell, his nose forever quivering as he paced around the house, reading scents upon the air as he moved from his basket in the hallway to lie on the mat in the lounge room where he caught the warmth of the afternoon sun.

He could not see me, but when I called his name his head turned toward me straight away, betraying his immediate recognition at the sound of my voice. I sat cross legged on the floor as he made his way towards me, and then he did something he had never done before, not in all the years I had known him. Slowly, tentatively, paw by paw, he climbed up into my lap and sat there, face upturned towards me. Then he started crying, a high-pitched plaintive weeping sound that went on and on, even as I petted him.

“My friend,” he said with his cries, “my dear friend. I thought I would never see you again. I am an old dog now and don’t have many days left in me. I thought you would come too late and I would miss my chance to tell you how much I love you. I am so glad you are here – so glad we can be together one last time.”

His crying went on for some time. So did mine.