Hector is a Jack Russel Terrier, with long legs, and wiry hair.
He was running across the beach at full pelt.
To the distant observer it looked as if his feet weren't touching the ground, as if he was somehow flying. He arched and stretched, and arched and stretched, in rapid bounds of hurtling energy. He was chasing a tennis ball that had been kicked along the wet sands. The tide was not long gone out, it was a day of grey clouds blown along the coast; dark cliffs framed the bay, resolute against tide and storm. Hector caught up with the ball, but as he went to take it in his mouth momentum took him past, so he curved his body back, and snapped the ball up in his mouth.
He was then caught between wanting to complete a gleeful lap of honour with the ball, or dropping it so it could be once more kicked and chased. The cries of 'drop' came to his ears, and he returned, came to a halt, and let the ball fall, but stood closely over it, shivering with panting anticipation.
This was the best thing ever. He loved the open space of a beach, he would career about the sands even without a ball to chase, led on by his nose to trace where other dogs had been, or to find a stick, or a ball, or the remains of a ball, or an old sandal, anything he could chew and chase. Within moments he would be coated in wet sand, or sea-soaked from chasing a chucked stick into the waves.
The ball was booted, and he was off. Sprinting across the sands.
What was that noise?
It sounded like the washing machine.
He could smell the kitchen.
He was in the kitchen, in his wicker box, curled up on his cushion, with his blanket.
How had that happened?
He had been dreaming.
His legs had been twitching, and he had been giving little muffled barks, whilst asleep in his box. He wasn't at the beach, he was at home.
Hector had been delirious with joy, now he was disappointed.
Of late his limbs ached, and had become feeble. It was even a struggle getting in and out of his box. His wiry fur was falling out, in places it had gone altogether, exposing his soft, downy undercoat.
All the long, fluffy hair had gone from his once proud tail.
His eye sight was cloudy, and his hearing dulled. He had grown old.
He didn't really even want to go for a walk any more, let alone a run. Now he took his pleasure in sleep, and finding warm places to lie down.
Do animals understand getting old? Do they understand they are coming to the end of their lives? Perhaps not by reason, but maybe by instinct, maybe more than we know ourselves. The bright fire that once burned within him, now faded to grey embers, yet still glowing. How can that fire ever die? That bright spark of divinity, that irresistible pulse from eternity. All living things come from You, and to You they return.
Hector listened, and smelt the air. There was nothing going on around him, just the familiar smells and sounds of home. He closed his eyes, and settled down in his bed, perhaps he would dream once more? In his dreams his legs did not ache, and his sight was not dimmed, he could run, and leap, and be free. In his dreams he was sure of himself, and there was no fear he could not drive away by his fierceness.
Hector had been straining at his leash, but now he was let off, and with mad excitement ran down the track toward the beach. He could smell it. He could hear the sea. The track through the dunes was sandy, and fringed with grasses, but in a moment the beach opened up before him. There would be balls and sticks to find, and curious smells, and other dogs to chase, and be chased by.
This would be the best day ever.
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