Awake at 2am.
Seventeen-year-old little dog yelping confused.
Dementia.
Yesterday I took the kids back to see the little horse. I got too close to the electric fence. The shock hit like a log across my back. Sharp. Invisible. Real.
Dinner was another pub menu. Same meals, different heading.
I hate cooking, which probably makes me bad at it.
Facebook. Instagram.
Everything recorded. Everything polished.
Except this part.
The old dog pacing at 2am.
The electric fence shock.
The quiet effort it takes to keep showing up.
A 95-year-old, sharp as a tack, remembered I was coming back Saturday.
A 17-year-old dog, dementia-ridden, lost in her own hallway.
We are lucky to wake up each day, as long as we have our health.
Grass under bare feet.
Salt water.
Planting vegetables.
Reality doesn’t perform.
It just asks you to be there.
The Lady in the Back Row 