Life with Neville

 

Neville and I exist in a drafty, clapboard house at the end of a gravel road. We don’t see much of the neighbours. It’s conversation-worthy if a car goes by or, more likely, turns in our lane to avoid the dead end ahead. Neville mostly does his own thing and, especially in the winter, I rarely see another human being outside of the monthly trip to town. The view from every window is white and devoid of beauty.  The interior landscape is just as bleak. I dust, mop and wipe, yet see only a film of gray blanketing my home.

Neville and I sleep in the same bed and eat our meals together, but the deeper connection we once had has now also accumulated a hazy grey-white patina. He used to gaze lovingly into my eyes, sit cuddling close, and pay attention to whatever I was doing, angling for my attention. Now Neville looks at me when supper is late. In lieu of meaningful looks, caresses or conversation, I tell him to do the thing he’s already doing. It gives me the illusion that he’s listening. That my words matter. That there is some sort of interaction between us. 

For days on end, the only words I say out loud are, “Neville, lick your bum, there’s a good kitty. Lick your bum.”