Abby, Like Whiskey, Mellows with Age

The sky is a silvery grey and a cool mist permeates the air, although the temperature is mild for the end of November. Sable-colored oak leaves, the color of Abby, the color of whiskey, still cling to trees. Abby could get lost in them.

A car streaks by. Abby checks in with me; does Mom have a treat ready?" Yes, I do, and Abby sits and impatiently waits for it. I give her the treat, she bites my fingers to get it and she leaps, spins and barks at the receding car.

OK, she hasn't mellowed entirely, and yet for years, Abby woke up promptly at 5:01 a.m. and wanted to go outside. Now she'll sleep in until 8:00. I think back, trying to remember, when did that change? She can now be off-leash in the house. She's able to be recalled from scorching off in a sable blaze to the kill the cat we've had for four years. Another subtle change.

Yes, Abby, our little whiskey-colored girl, is mellowing with age. And though life with her is smoother, it makes me very sad.