Galvin crop

From jump street, two things were clear.

She had a mouth on her … and she would be in charge.

Since Day One, she has made no bones about the fact that when she wanted something from us, she would let us know — repeatedly, until her wishes were granted, her demands were met, her orders were followed.

We’ve loved every minute of it.

Until now.

Now, we can’t tell what she wants, other than to be pet and comforted, unless she rejects such attempts. Now, she wants the familiar reassurance of a knuckle gliding through her turned-out ear. Now, she’ll lightly bite if you accede to her requests.

Now, she wants to breathe the fresh air through the sliding door, or lick the drops of water at the bottom of the shower stall. Now, she doesn’t.

She wants food in her dish — not because she’s hungry; but just because it signals to her that we know she’s still with us.

The “now” is the hard part, the toughest part, for her and for us. The “when” we’ve come to grips with, fully rooted in the acceptance stage.

That moment is coming — sooner than we’d like, later than probably it should — and we know the drill. Understanding and experience will lead us through that period, this time and (most likely) the next.

But the now …

There’s a relative ease in talking about such finality in the past tense. The bad thing, the sad thing, has happened, and melancholy words of bittersweet remembrance are tempered by warmth.

The now, though, is not a time for poetry. It is difficult to watch, to hear, to feel.

Moments of strength are less frequent — the ability to control her steps, her functions. Even striving to better position herself between us at night is a struggle that doesn’t always succeed.

She, as always, does as she pleases, even if that means disappearing into a corner for hours at a time.

When her hind legs began failing, she would trundle about like a secondary character in a Western who had a hitch in their get-a-long. Now, though, sometimes, her haunches fail completely. They’re of little use when trying to jump onto the bed, and sometimes drag along behind her when she moves through a room.

The voice, though … oh, the voice.

Strong as ever — commanding, resolute, matter-of-fact — the voice tells us she’s still present, in mind and spirit if not in body.

The voice hasn’t changed in 14 years, not since we first heard it at the shelter. She was alone in a cage, her litter-mates having been adopted, when we first held her, and her distinctive ear, to our chests.

She knew then, we knew then, but moved on to another passel of hopefuls across the room.

And that’s when we heard it.

Turning, she had managed to brace herself upon the door of the cage, all fur and fury, letting us know in no uncertain terms that we were wasting our time with those pretenders.

“Get moving with the paperwork,” she ordered, “and let’s go home.”

So we did.

The now is not a time for poetry. The now is about the three of us, compensating as best we can until, once more, it will be the two of us.

We’re supposed to know the when. Understanding and experience should have, by this stage, sent us the signs. Only … she’s the Head of the Household, and we’ve always relied on her to tell us what we need to do.

When she’s ready, there’s no doubt she will.