Don't rush breakfast.

She's coming.

Up the stairs.

Step by step.

So slowly because it's still early and her joints are probably sore after a long night's sleep. Not moving seems to allow the cement to creep into those spaces that are supposed to decrease friction when we move. And she's really getting on in years. When I see pictures of her from just a few years ago I'm shocked at how grey her muzzle has become.

She wants her breakfast so she stares at me while I type. It's still too early and we mustn't spoil her interior clock. Breakfast a few minutes early one day mean we eat a few minutes even earlier another day and next thing you know breakfast is being served at 2 a.m. At the start, not the end, of the day. And we can't have that.

So instead a quick snuggle is in order and we roll around on the floor and suddenly she's a puppy again and she's burrowing her cheek into my hand so I'll rub her ears and we both forget that our bodies are both breaking down, that we're both getting older and that our time together will never be long enough.

O.K.

It's time for breakfast.