There are compensations, small ones. More touching almost, for their smallness.
Picasso spending the mornings in my arms. It is different, and there is no licking… Sweet all the same, and every moment is savored.
Picasso’s following me everywhere, the little zaiyde, and his constant poking and entreaties to have us look into each other’s eyes.
Picasso falling asleep in my arms, and his insistence that we hold hands as we sleep.
These are new, these things, and they comfort me.
And then he starts clawing on the bed again and I am reminded that he is still him, and he is as crazy and curious and exasperating as ever… And it makes the new things, the changes, the kindnessess, mean that much more.
He cares.
We’re in this together. And his life is not just balls and catnip and foodfoodfood and o what’s this? Double pointed needles! Hide them! Yarn! Carry them around.
And it matters, the changes, the good ones.
