Valentino arrives at the apartment and the inspection begins. It’s December 30, the night before New Year’s Eve, and we’ve agreed to dog-watch. Fluffy and remarkably nimble, Tino might seem young at first glance. A closer look, however, reveals that time has poured milk across his eyes. As he sniffs out the boundaries of his newfound quarters, he makes a series of gentle collisions:
Bump. Terse exhale. Continue.
We go about clearing obstacles and setting up comforts. Tino’s bed and feeding bowls are nestled together in the bedroom, and Josh brings him here repeatedly for orientation. He is determined, however, to explore.
When I go to pet him, brushing a gentle palm across his forehead, he catches a whiff of a stranger and barks a scrappy defense. I concede.
My cat, however, is far less willing to capitulate to Tino’s demands. As Tino explores the apartment, he is unwittingly stalked by a fascinated tabby, pupils wide and unblinking in the watching. Occasionally, the blind dog changes course unexpectedly, and August acrobatically escapes to some higher ground. We watch this, laughter rolling into the apartment.
Before Josh goes to work, he takes Tino for a walk and then shuts him in the bedroom. He asks me to ensure the cat and dog are kept separate for the time being, and I agree. Later, I decide to head to the gym, and I step gingerly into the bedroom. Valentino hears me, barreling immediately into motion, and, in a panic, I roll onto the bed and freeze. The next three minutes are quiet, the dog curiously sniffing the air and the grown man watching with a mischievous grin.
Valentino doesn’t have much time left. Dogs are a strange and miraculous gift, so very alive and attuned to the worlds of humans, but also markedly finite. We cannot make him young again, but we can build these days around ensuring he is cozy and cared for.
And his is not a life without stories, even now. In the course of a few days, he has infuriated the cat by finding and finishing his food, he has held me hostage in my own bedroom, and he has made us cackle in laughter.
Time is relentless in its turning of pages, no matter how much we ache to slow it, but it also permits us the chance to scribble down what we might one day hope to remember.
–
I adore New Year’s Day.
By this, I don’t really mean to say I adore New Year’s Eve. In my experience, the last night of the calendar year usually amounts to a messy blend of social pressure, the ticking of the clock, and communal celebration. I’ve shouted ‘Happy New Year’ alongside best friends and lovers, but strange characters always somehow factor into the experience. On the lucky years, the blur is more joyful than rushed.
New Year’s Day, however, always strikes me with the blinking softness of a blank page. Walking on the sidewalk, riding the train, I can feel it from everyone. It’s written, plain as day, on their faces. Everyone is lost in thought: reflecting on the past year, wondering about the future, and thinking about how to start writing.
I love the clumsiness of first sentences. A blank page means anything is possible, but the first sentence sets a story in motion. New Year’s Day feels fresh, feels possible, feels tender, feels hopeful, feels imaginative. Perhaps this will be the year we break better. Perhaps these will be the days our hands figure out how to strum that melody we’ve been humming.
–
2024 was the year I learned to exhale and let go.
I began the year with a scrappy sense of resolve: I would hit 2024 with a sprinting start, hitting the gym each day and chasing my wildest joy. In the first week of the year, however, I watched someone I adore crumble into crisis. Days later, I took a nasty spill on an evening run, cracking my phone screen and rolling my ankle.
When I noticed my lower back tightening up, I tried to push it through exercise. I spent the rest of the week lying on my living room floor, passing the hours watching sitcoms and calling whoever had time to listen. I came into 2024 with ferocious intentions, but, in these hours, I reached a new resolution: This would be the year of gentleness.
I started a morning yoga practice and worked to commune with my body as it healed. When I recovered enough to run, to lift weights at the gym, I did these things with gratitude and without brutality. Perhaps a more honest strength lies in gentleness.
For 2025, I resolve only to go gentler. I will wander where my soul can find rest, and I will commune with people around whom my guard unravels. I will write – poetry, stories, love letters, eulogies, forewords – and I will scribble my initials on every draft.
michael king 