When I walked into the Cottage tonight I was greeted by a smiling, wagging, bounding dog.
Well, as smiling as dogs can get, and as bounding as a 15-year-old old man can be.
But he was up, he was himself and he was trying to overdo it again. It wasn't enough to walk to follow me around, he had to trot and skip.
Well, not literally trot and skip, but he put way too much spring in his step for my liking and I told him so.
"You're too old to be moving that fast."
"Please slow down before you hurt yourself."
While I tossed the ball around for Skye, I tried to leave him inside. She gets rambunctious in her ball playing and has knocked him over a few times. I didn't want to risk him taking a spill and hurting himself again.
He refused though, putting up such a whiny stink that I didn't want him to try something stupid like jumping on the wooden bench by the window. So I let him back out and while Skye chased her ball, I petted him (on his level so he didn't have to sit on sore hips) and told him how happy I was that he felt better.
I could almost cry happy tears thinking of the life that was back in his eyes tonight, unlike Tuesday when I quietly sobbed over the thought of him not being here anymore. Emotionally, I'm just not ready.
And neither is he, apparently.