After getting a small bite of the Spouse Thingy's dinner--a beef brat--Max wandered over to the fireplace, pulled his nip banana close, and drifted off.
This isn't unusual; he loves the fireplace and likes to plop down there, bake on one side, flip over, bake, and then go cool off in his little hutch next to the fireplace.
But after a while, I realized he hadn't flipped over.
And a bit after that, he'd been there far longer than normal.
So I watched. And from where I sat, I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. I picked up my phone and turned it on--that usually gets an eye open--and then took a picture, and he still didn't budge.
"Max," I whispered.
"Max." A little louder.
"Breathe, you little shit," at full volume.
I almost got up; I knew that if he was all right, just the sound of the recliner's footrest being lowered would wake him up, because it's loud and he doesn't like it. But the goal wasn't to really bother him...it was to just make sure he was alive.
So I whispered again.
His eyes popped open, he lifted his head, and looked at me like, "Did I hear that right? Treats?"
I sighed hard, and was =t h i s= close to getting up and getting him a couple of crunchy treats, when he pulled his banana even closer and set his head on it, closing his eyes.
He's pushing 13. So I worry. And I suspect he knows it.