I’m writing this post in bed where every now and again I can feel a little puff of warm air float over my toes. This isn’t anything to worry about – it’s just Keith breathing.
It’s been a while since I’ve shared my bed – my tics don’t always make me an ideal bedfellow – but Keith doesn’t seem bothered.
I’d been worrying about how he’d react to my wheelchair but he was unphased by it and seems to have good wheelchair awareness. So all in all it seems I’m onto a winner with Keith.
But who is he?
Keith’s a dog, a Jack Russell/Collie cross, and Olive’s looking after him for the weekend while his owners are away. Olive’s also looking after me, so they’re both staying at the castle tonight.
Earlier the three of us went to a nearby pub. This is the first time I’ve been out in weeks, but after a long spell of ill health I’m feeling back on track at last.
Olive pushed me through the clear autumn evening with Keith sitting on my lap. He seemed perfectly happy perched on my knee, despite the fact that I was repeatedly ticcing about “Cat sex”.
A few moments ago my they were suggesting things Olive should tell his owners when they come to pick him up in a couple of days.
“He’s developed a passion for Lebanese poetry.”
“It’s not Keith anymore, it’s David and he’s studying ethics at Kings.”
“He’s taken up line dancing.”
My mum had a Jack Russell for many years and the feeling of Keith’s solid little body at the end of the bed is lovely and very familiar. Right now I think he’s dreaming, which is making him even twitchier than me.
He was in the garden earlier barking frantically into the night. Olive thought it was at the planes passing overhead but I’m sure it was really the lamp-post.
He’s been a great addition to the castle and he’s welcome back anytime.
Now it’s my turn to settle down and, like Keith, head to the land of dreams.