I was rinsing out his water bowl when my four-year-old daughter, Jillian, padded into the kitchen in her sock-covered feet.
« Mama, can Frankie sleep in my bed tonight? »
Sixteen years is a long time to love anyone.
« Sweetheart, his knees can’t handle your bed, » I said, kneeling to scratch behind my pet’s ears. « But he’ll be right on the rug beside you. Same as always. »
My son, Laurence, six, trailed in behind his sister, dragging a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
« Frankie is old, » he announced very seriously.
« He is, » I agreed. « That’s why we’re extra gentle. »
« His knees can’t handle your bed. »
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