Last Love

Almost every night she slips into my bed, and I welcome her, craving her warmth as she curls to conform her body to mine. We sleep, spoon fashion.
Oh, there are times when we don’t agree. She can be shrill, scolding the neighbors up too soon or those who tear around late. She’s protective, doesn’t want me disturbed or unduly startled. She’s young, you see, and I am old, but in our May-December relationship, she gives my life meaning, a reason to arise each morning.
She’s beautiful and as playful as a kitten at times. Her eagerness for a good time gets me out of my chair and makes me laugh. How clever she is and oh, how she teases. She puts a spring in my step and lifts my spirits every hour of the day.
The two of us walk every afternoon, strolling along the honeysuckle walk to get the mail or to the corner to watch the boys on bikes. We dawdle, examining leaves and bits of bark, little things others might not notice as we inhale the cool salt scent wafting inland from the coast. We poke about, checking our property, alert to anything the least bit altered from the day before. By now we know every inch of the garden planters, the slope of the grass, and what lies behind every bush. She’s alert, warning me of anything amiss. With her, I feel safe.
When we’ve had enough of the outdoors or, I should say, when I’ve had enough for she would like nothing better than to go around again, dawdling, observing, roaming the intricate pathways of our neighborhood, I ask, “Sweetie, don’t you think it’s time to go back into the house and have a little snack.”
I pour myself a glass of red wine, have a cracker or two, maybe some cheese or some dark chocolate. She prefers fresh water and a few carrot sticks. No wonder she’s in better shape than I, slim and trim; her diet and exercise keeps her that way.
I sort the day’s mail at the table, open the paper to read our horoscopes since we catch the rest of news on CNN. Then she’ll sit in my lap as I pour another glass of wine. While she rests, drowsy after a full day, I fix dinner.
In the evening, she’s alert again and demands my attention, nudging and prodding, insisting on some quality time even tough I must get some writing done, check my e-mail, and do some research on the net.
She gets out her toys, one after another, eager to play, thinking one game or another will entice me. Surely, the neighbors can hear how badly she wants to party for she can become quite insistent in the evenings.
“Shh, it’s getting late,” I tell her. Then I coax her a little, rub her back, and she settles down. She loves me, and I love her, my dachshund, my Annie.