A Satisfying Life

There is an elegant conformation in there,
deep within the black-grey unruly mop.
Her eyes watch warily beyond their
impairment. She trusts only to a certain
degree, insisting on her venerable entitlements.
She does not now take kindly to the usual
ministrations and unwanted manipulations
that offend her sovereign integrity and dignity.

Grooming results please us, but not of
necessity, her. It is, after all, her hair, her
teeth, her nails that we so officiously insist on
engaging with, and she feels understandably
affronted at our presumption, for she does not
impose her values upon us, so why must we
incessantly discommode her peace?

It helps not one iota that she now hears nothing
and sees almost as much. We do insist, on
occasion, that she submit to the process
whereby extraneous hair is shorn and once
again emerges the lovely little dog we adopted
eighteen years ago. Regardless, she would
much prefer not to be so importuned.

Take it or leave her be, for she yet remains
capable of and interested in long, guided
woodland rambles, albeit now forgetful of
long-familiar direction. And she remains
staunchly committed to meal times, with their
very important, anticipated treats. What more,
after all, should a satisfying life be comprised of?