Old Baxter was blind on his right side and deaf on his left, resulting in a world that came to him in a strange sort of cross-channeled mono.  His senses lacked focus, contrast or depth of field.  For Baxter, life was a blurry, faded, black and white movie with a scratchy soundtrack. 

Old Baxter was either sixteen years old in people-years, which he was not, or one hundred and twelve in dog-years, which he was.   His hair fell out in great patches and he drooled constantly out the right side of his mouth, often leaving large pools behind wherever he stopped or lingered for any amount of time.  Once at rest, which was often, he could get up only with great difficulty.

Years ago, when he was just “Baxter” or “Bax”, he could run like the wind.  His fine, athletic body was the match for any cat, squirrel or rabbit that chose to challenge him on open ground.  Tall trees and thick woods were the only refuge for his prey.  If Baxter had ever learned to climb trees, he might have ruled the world.   

But time had caught up with Old Baxter and he now spent most of his day, repetitiously stumbling to his feet and pattering around following the slowly migrating patches of sunlight as they moved about the house.  Upon recapturing the sun, Baxter would slump down into its warmth and dream of glory days chasing, chasing, cha...  zzzzzz.

As the late morning shadows became shorter and smaller, the familiar sounds of the empty house remained the same.  The refrigerator whirred on and off with a clunk.  The clock on the side table tick-ticked with such regularity that it became the heartbeat for the entire house.  Slowly expanding and contracting, the timbers of the house breathed in and out, in and out, setting off startling pops and creaks - usually at about the moment that Old Baxter was falling asleep. 

But on this day Old Baxter was wide awake. 

He was watching. 

Thinking. 

Plotting.

He had been following the path of a buzzing fly with uncharacteristic clarity, and was calculating exactly what it would take on his part to catch it.  It was a Machiavellian pursuit that once commanded great chunks of Baxter’s attention, but of which these days he rarely gave a thought.   Even so, he reveled in the challenge, the strategy, the stealth, the thrill of the chase.

He ran it carefully through his mind.  First he would wait, still and alert, every muscle relaxed but ready.  He would carefully calculate the speed and trajectory of the fly as it moved across the room.  And then, at a precise moment he would charge his muscles, bolting upright and landing deftly upon the pads of all four feet, ready to move in any direction in an instant. With one easy motion he would snap the fly from the air, plucking it as  cleanly as a hawk snatches a napping rabbit, rendering the fly extinct.  It would be a piece of cake – just like old times – he could do it in his sleep. 

He waited and watched. 

Waited and watched… 

Waited…

NOW!

Springing to his feet like the champion that he was, like the champion that he always had been, (like the champion that he would never again be) Baxter landed ready to pounce.  In his mind’s eye, the image was very clear:  he had vaulted to a ready position in one swift, coordinated response, making no sound, using precious little energy.  The fly was toast.  Just like old times.

Unfortunately however, in reality only Baxter’s left hind leg had managed to make the trip - quivering shakily to an uncertain semi-standing position while the rest of him lie in intermediate steps of repose from sort-of-standing to completely inert.   With great effort he brought his remaining limbs up to a standing position and stood there, dizzy and very tired, but up none the less. 

The fly was, at that very moment, on a chair by the window.  It flitted about, diffidently, almost carelessly, confident that nothing in the room presented a danger.  (Most especially the flea bitten old dog that was looking at him strangely from across the room.)

The fly took flight.

It buzzed up, then down, then around and then straight at Old Baxter.  This was it, thought Old Baxter, it was now or never.   Hot blood coursed through his veins, freshly wetted with adrenaline - aged like fine mountain whiskey and pleased to be back in the fray.  Summoning every bit of his cunning and strength, Old Baxter lunged in the direction of the fly.  He would soon be tearing this fly to shreds. 

Fact: It was a polished wooden floor that Old Baxter stood upon. 

Why hadn’t he remembered that?  He took one, two, three running steps like a flabbergasted fawn fighting for balance on ice.  Faster, faster, falling, catching, he felt himself building up speed.  His feet pounded, picking up strength and rhythm.  He felt himself running like the wind!  Just like before, it was Baxter the Champion, sprinting across the meadow hot on the heels of the stink of rabbit terror.

Looking sideways for perspective, perhaps to watch the fence posts blurring by, Old Baxter realized that he was actually going no where at all.  The rest of the room sat motionless.  His feet were a blur beneath him, his old toe nails click-click-clicking on the floor as they strained for purchase.   His mind was a mixture of excitement, confusion and terror, spiked with that sweet adrenaline. 

He was now wishing that he’d never started any of this in the first place.  His spatial relationship to everything in the room continued to remain the same – except for the fly, which slowly buzzed even further across the room.

Realization was instantaneous.  With a great, graceless whimper, Old Baxter crashed to the floor in a flurry of matted hair, drool and disappointment.   And there he laid. He couldn’t move.  Or maybe he was just too afraid or too ashamed to move.  The entire episode, the exertion, the sudden movement, the pain of hitting the floor hard had exhausted him, and he was suddenly very, very tired. 

The throw rug that he landed on was thick and soft, and it was suitably situated smack in the middle of the best late morning sun of the day.  The refrigerator kicked on with a clunk and somewhere in the next room a wall gave a healthy “pop”.  All the while, the kitchen clock kept time.   A giggling fly practiced touchdowns on Old Baxter’s nose as he closed his eyes, sighed a very deep sigh, and dreamed once more of chasing rabbits.