She lay there in the shade by the pale wall, day in and day out, trying to escape the inescapable Italian sun that baked man and beast alike, stones and dry vines and the hard flat sea. Still lay the dog, old and feeble. Neglected. It was terrible. And incommunicable. It's not that the dog wasn't loved. But when they are bought as puppies they are adored, cuddled, tossed, amused. And in middle-age they are run ragged, to the edge of their love and endurance. But in old age, when the joints grow stiff and afflictions of the ears or stomach cause pain that cannot be found or solved, or is not worth the money, then there is no fun left to be had with the dog and not a thing that can be done. Now she was loved for what she once was, and left to her own devices, to whimper and wine and beg attention with her eyes. The once sleek coat, greased by petting hands, became bristled and hard. The eyes once full of life began to accept the slow impending fate. And I, full of hypocrisy, did not spare more than a few minutes a day to pet the poor thing because in that I felt a dread, a kind of cowardice that overwhelmed all sympathies.
To grow old can be a wonderful experience, but to be old... to languish.. that is a matter of another kind, the saddest of tragedies, and I hated to be reminded of it, reminded that it was waiting, somewhere ahead, even for me. So I sat. And I watched her, while the flies buzzed round her ears in the heat.
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