Have not posted recently since the visits usually follow the same pattern: we sit under the tree canopy in the courtyard and sit, talk, or listen to music.

Music generally still means gospel bluegrass by Doyle Lawson and Quicksilver, to which we sing along. To us, there is simply no music more perfect than this.

Recently he asks to stop after a few songs. I think he sings with such gusto that it tires him out.

I was away for a week and when I came back he had become deeply stuck in his inability to speak and interact. After a few sessions together he seemed to get somewhat unstuck and spoke a bit more.

But there is no doubt that his disease is tightening around him.

During one visit we watched a hawk land on nearby trees and lampposts. The hawk was likely hunting the plentiful squirrels and chipmunks in the courtyard.

I am almost entirely resistant to any sort of mystical thinking but I wrestled with the meaning of the hawk hunting in and around our sanctuary.

In the end I suppose it is just a reminder that all lives will eventually be taken, whether they belong to a chipmunk, to my vet, or to me.