The nose knows, I thought to myself this morning as I carried Pebbles up the hall to the kitchen. We both blinked in the light, and I put the kettle on for my coffee. And so does the heart.
There it was, right by the back door. Pee, again. I cleaned it up with a rag, some bleach cleaner and a heavy heart.
Before I left the house, I kneeled beside a cardboard box tucked beneath an end table. Inside it, curled up on a green towel, my sixteen-year-old cat watched me with sunken but adoring eyes. She's lost a lot of weight just lately, her legs and paws are painfully bony, and her sides heave with the force of her purring.
"I love you, Roo."
Soon, I will have a call from my husband with The News. I'm hoping for a bladder infection. Have you ever hoped for one of those? Me, neither.
In the meantime, in that place deep in my chest where Truth lives, I think I know otherwise.
I'm afraid it may be Time.