337 Goes Without Saying

Nights have matured, from repairs of wear-and-tear, toward a respite that supersedes maintenance. Each sleep’s pause—and paws—portend limited days left for both of us, my old, best friend.

She reached her final destination before us, so we lie in wait, in wrinkled contentment for her destination to catch up, retrieving us. Just the two of us now.

At our age, we knew you'd be our last dog. Announcing timelines (measuring timeliness) in dogs and such—a queer call to mortality:

20-year warranty — the last roof we'll ever need replace; 10-year power-train — the last car we'll ever need drive.

Lifetime warranties. Are these our last things? Last things—funny way to think about life. Last things cement ridiculous legacies: what we've accrued, just for the estate sale to come. Worth the tally?

You, my friend, beside me, have always known the important things to have, keep, and wake up to.

You side-eye me. You smell her side of the bed so cannot fathom why I miss her—as if she weren't here. I side-eye you. Side-eyes meet askance, peripheral vision meeting in parallax; we lie, laughing with side-eyed eyes only, dismissing things not us.

You belong by my side. I side-eye you, not her substitute, but my complement—my new wingman; I am cleared for my final approach. But why do we wait?

I wait for her; you wait to follow, come what may.

You smell the pain of her absence. We're in this void together, filling it as best we can with a bouquet—half-full, half-empty.

I make the face that launched a thousand wags. The bed shakes—oscillates, rhythmic to your morning salutation. 98.6º + 101º: tenderness distributes evenly with the warmth of Redemption.

I can't get out of bed. Your hips agree but you would if I could. We old fellows wait for it.

There's beauty in living together, quietly restated by sleeping together. Even asleep…we know…who is there. The bed holds silent conversations waged in the strange æther that slips through alert fingers and noses come morning.

There's beauty in living together, sublimated by dying together. I missed my chance with her, but together we'll both catch up with her.

Till then, thank you, my old friend.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

For Monday, December 2, Day 337 of the 2024 Story-a-Day Challenge.

Repurposed from a poem. 366 WORDS (without A/N).

29 DAYS TO GO! THE STORIES KEEP HOME-STRETCHIN' ON IN THIS VOCAL CHALLENGE, 366 WORDS A DAY.

There are currently three Vocal writers in this 2024 Story-a-Day Challenge:

• L.C. (Challenger) Schäfer

• Rachel (Challengee) Deeming

• Gerard (non-Chalant) DiLeo