But aging is a gift. And being able to watch Henley age is, too. He does it without complaint. Yet I wonder what he’d say on those days when it’s too much.
It’s raining again this morning and dark. Even the dog wasn’t keen on going outside to take care of business. I twirled my umbrella as I waited for Henley to come down from the porch, and I could tell from his hesitancy it would be a fast break.
It was.
My thirteen-year-old fur baby did the necessary and went back up to the other side of the porch and waited at the door for my husband to let him in. His old bones wanted nothing to do with the rain this morning. He’s tired of the storms that make him anxious. Yet, I look at him, and my heart swells with love.
Henley is stubborn in his senior years and set in his ways. His legs aren’t what they used to be, and he looks longingly at our bed. He will leap only on a good day – or when I have the vacuum out -.
Not unlike me some days, I guess— good days and bad days: days when we feel a bit braver and days when we question ourselves. I’ve learned so much from having Henley by my side all these years. His soulful eyes have never let me down. And his canine personality has always made me smile.
I see the signs of aging in him. He mostly walks and occasionally runs – or some variation of running, anyway – when he sees his human girlfriend. I see his hindquarters shake sometimes, and I realize we all age, as much as I’d like to live in denial.
But aging is a gift. And being able to watch Henley age is, too. He does it without complaint. Yet I wonder what he’d say on those days when it’s too much. When I hear him thrash himself down onto his comfy dog bed or his favorite spot on the floor in the living room, is that his I’ve had enough moment? The way he lets out a long exhale tells me it may be so.
When I think about it, I’ve had those moments of exasperation, too. Whether I retreat to the chair, sigh, or sit silently and thrash in my mind. I suppose I’ve even thrown myself on the bed a time or two and surrendered to the world’s weight.
I’ve noticed this summer that Henley digs when he’s anxious, usually when it’s stormy outside. There’s a difference between when he does it, though. When he’s nervous, he digs to find a safe space, and when Henley is annoyed digging, it’s to move the blanket off his bed or the area rug moved so he can lie on the wood floor.
Again, like me, there’s a similarity.
When I’m anxious, I look for a retreat – a safe space. And honestly, sometimes, my favorite blanket that hangs on the back of the couch is it. It’s also the blanket I throw off when I’m too warm.
We all have our cloaks. We all have our quirks.
These things come into perspective as I age gracefully with my canine child. And, some days, I think Henley subtly teaches us how to accept the inevitability of aging. I see it when he greets me in the morning with his unwavering, happy face. His eyes are bright, and his tail wagging.
“Hey, Mom,” I imagine he says as he watches me make breakfast. “Can I have some bacon, too?” Whether we’ve slept well or not, Henley’s light brings ours into focus.
His once ferocious “don’t worry, I’m not getting off the bed to stop you” bark is more muffled. And reserved for appropriate occasions like telling his canine cousin he’s had enough.
And I understand the transition because my voice has changed as I’ve aged. I want to think that comes with learning and growing. And maybe that’s what it is with Henley, too – an appropriateness that comes with age. Although it’s also an I don’t care attitude, that doesn’t mean you don’t care. But that you’ve grown comfortable in your skin.
And Henley certainly fits that bill. I, however, am still a work in progress.
