an old sketch of mine that I always thought needed a story Senses dwindle with age, its true. A gradual subtraction from the five senses is as inevitable as the addition of wrinkles to the face. The seeing and the hearing are the first to dull, generally, I suppose. My sniffer isn’t too bad, for an old dog. And the little hot peppers I grow myself, grind up myself and throw into everything I eat, sure help my tasting along. But my sense of touch is still sharp. Really, it might be sharper, with how easily and darkly the bruises rise. The softness of this fur in my hands, my old withered, leathery hands, is a testament to the last drop of youth in me still, as though it has pooled in my fingertips. The fur is tawny silk and falls into the lines of my skin, like fresh red stain filling crevices in a panel of wood. The skin beneath is still pink, as you’d expect. He’s just a baby. Either that or he’s cold from being left out so long, with no warm belly to smother