The old blind dog seeks out a place to sit, even for moments, in a spot that will bring soothing to the bones, perhaps in dappled sunlight, or up on a perch where he waits to hear a familiar voice,
"I'm here, you're okay, do you need help?"
He often does. And I gather him up and we sit together on a nearby bench, taking it all in, both of us feeling a shift in the breeze or the landing of flies on our bodies.
He doesn't have an agenda for the day, once he eats. He is happy to be here, blind, using his other senses to navigate his time. I don't think he worries, because he has the consistency of my presence, and my voice to help him if he needs it. To have a reassuring voice in your life if you need it–what a gift.
I carry him inside so I can do more work on the new barn. But when I come outside, I sit on that same rock, looking out onto a field I hardly know. It was a warm rock though. And I see Martyn out in the distance, on the tractor, he waves. It was a sign language of reassurance.
