As I wrote this story, Emmy Lou reminded me it was time for her walk. “I don’t walk you until I feed you,” I said.
“You fed me 20 minutes ago,” she replied, a little hurt.
“Surely I didn’t,” I barked, a little offended. But it turns out I had, the evidence in the slobber in her dishwashed bowl.
Two years ago, I had an MRI that came back with good news about a heart issue, and this, from my doctor.
“Your brain is shrinking. Let’s do another in a year to monitor,” he offered. “Have you had memory issues?”
“Not really,” I lied, leaving out the proper nouns that arrive four minutes after I need them. “I forget you are 75,” he noted. “Let’s see what things look like next year.”
When next year arrived, I declined. Everything on me is shrinking, except my prostate.
“Emmy, walk???”
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