Things

Senior dogs are quiet miracles.

They no longer rush the world—

they understand it.
Their paws know the map of the house,
every soft spot, every memory pressed into the floor.

Their eyes carry whole lifetimes.
Not the shiny kind of love,
but the earned kind—
the kind that stayed.

They sleep deeper now,
dreaming of fields they once ran,
of names spoken gently,
of hands that never left.

Their faces turn silver,
as if time kissed them instead of taking.
Each gray hair is a promise kept,
each slow step a lesson in presence.

Senior dogs teach us how to love without urgency,
how to sit without fixing,
how to stay even when the body says enough.

They don’t ask for much—
a warm bed,
a familiar voice,
a little extra patience.

But what they give
is everything.

They remind us that love does not fade—
it deepens,
it softens,
it waits quietly by your side
until you are ready to notice
that this is what devotion looks like.

Ta-Miu (aka “little mewer”). Here’s the cat’s sarcophagus ~ the inscription says “I myself am placed among the imperishable ones that are in the Sky / For I am Ta-Miu, the Triumphant” (1,500 BC)