Camping at the foot of the bridge

Sherlock has stopped eating these past four or five days...and is slowly getting smaller and smaller in preparation for the final journey. Like a baby, there's a lot of messy stuff going on, with oozing puss and fluids, bursting final poopies, and aching bones as we lift him out to the garden for his peewees, which he likes to go about five or so times a day, even if there are only drops...i pop him down on the newly sprouting grass, and prop his feet into a standing position, and he wobbles a bit to get his balance, takes a few steps, and then comes to a stop, and after a peewees, stands there wondering if i can catch him before he collapses...Like a mummy, I grow into the new tasks of feeding water with a dropper, or a teacup when he can lift his head a little, of patting round oozing sores with wet wipes and creams, gently murmuring words of encouragement and soothing nothings to show him we love him.

It's weird how time seems to collapse, already dreamlike with the pandemic, it disappears into a dull sense of waiting, and a peaceful satisfaction of having the daily noises going on around, the chirping of the birds, Nobu thumping and whumping, leaping on to the sofa with much gusto, and the clatter of the dishes in the kitchen...not going just yet, mummy, let me get on with being here. And he is so cute, in all the messiness of encroaching death, he's so adorable and sweet, the soul shines through the not so ephemeral body, and he is beautiful. And tough, and used to pain and patience, and toughing it out: I wish it would all go fast, but like birth, it takes its time, slowly, but surely. So we're still camping on the edge of the bridge.