Pongo

Pongo is old now.

I watch him move slowly and carefully in the garden. His cataract eyes and poor hearing makes it difficult for him to recognise me.

He no longer chases away the red, blue rosellas and yellow crested galahs that dared ventured into his perfect garden.

Once they would scatter shrieking into the the sky when he appeared. Now they ignore him. Pongo watches them briefly, lets out a cursory growl and quickly returns to his thoughts.

Pongo sometimes shows moments of youthfulness when his old creaky body allows him. Perhaps it’s his way of protesting against the advancing years. A brief respite from the inevtiable effects of ageing.

Pongo is my friend. I met him several years ago. At the time I was thinking about buying the house next door. As I walked around the property, Pongo appeared from across the fenceless yard. He thought I was an intruder and bailed me up. After that brief confrontation we eventually became great mates.

We saw each other nearly every day. He would always come over to my house or I would drop in to see him.

Now Pongo waits. If he is in the garden he still makes the long journey across the yard to greet me. I watch him shuffle towards me and wonder how much longer can he keep going.

Yes, Pongo is old, at 15. That’s old for a dog.