Touch

     The old dog was sick. Obviously. He--it--was walking too slowly, too tentatively, as if it were ill or lost or depressed. She smiled at the thought. Depressed? Can dogs be depressed? Sad? Do they have feelings?

    Of course they do. She remembered King, her brother's dog, and the way it mourned when their old cat died. A cat! The rival pet in the household, the animal King had stalked, barked at, pushed out of the way at the water bowl. Well, King didn't really push that old cat, but cozied up uncomfortably close, a tease rather than an assault.

    So maybe this old dog, mutt of some kind, was recovering from something rather than being actively ill . . . or rabid. Funny how the threat of rabies sprang up so quickly--her mother's fear still embedded fifty years later.

    Well, the dog slouching up the sidewalk was not rabid: no foam oozing from its jaw, no swaying hips, just a sad, slow one paw in front of the other progression. She'd never seen a dog, or any animal for that matter, move so slowly, so deliberately.

    So, she should do something, go to it, offer some comfort. She knew the power of touch, the power of welcome as well as anybody, probably better than most, so she popped the brake on her chair, and wheeled down the ramp to the sidewalk.

    The dog heard her coming, stopped, lifted his head to look. She waved, then laughed at herself--who waved to a dog?

    Well, the dog saw her. He had stopped, was waiting, obviously waiting, for her, and when she got to him, he lifted his great head for her touch.

    Just what they needed, both of them.