When my son was born, Latte was 5 years old, and just as she had during my pregnancy, she followed him everywhere. Slept beside his crib. Smelled him every chance she got. What the fuck is this thing? What is it?
At the park, when he was two, a dog dashed up to him and knocked him over. I didn’t even have time to react before Latte came flying from the trees and slammed into the other dog. She sent it sprawling and when the dog got up she body-slammed it again and stood next to the kid just to clarify: Mine. Back the fuck off.
She’ll be fourteen in two weeks. So old now that she falls when she sneezes. It’s a terrible thing to watch. And also, I chart my love by her. The wild beginning, the glorious disasters, those times where we would fuck you up and consider it negotiation. Now we are wise enough to be less sure of our footing.
For all that we won’t slow down. Why not dash across the yard? Why not try for that mole? You never know.
So. Your metaphor is this old dog? Yeah. My love is an old dog. Man, she was a dangerous fucking creature in the beginning. Chasing trouble like it’d be delicious.
“This is my final Halloween as a single digit!” Gavin announced last night.
“Yes,” we all agreed sadly.
My little boy. No longer little. My old dog. Wild as ever.
