He lies on the greenish-blue fluffy carpet, with his hind legs tucked in tight, the bottom of his paws resting comfortably on the cotton beneath him. His front legs limp in front of his lazy grooved body, one being slightly bent at the wrist. Between his two wiggly front legs sits his statue fixed head, and just below, his dark snout droops the sides of his lips.

The silent room around him only echoes distant creaks. Only certain sounds can be heard at this time, each introduced in intervals. The tics from the glossed wooden clock, the tapping on the living room window from the gentle trees outside, the slight grumble coming from the refrigerator, or even the mysterious squeaking of a door can all be heard before they awake.

As each revealing noise passes, his ears remain calm, patient. The wise eyes stationed on his face, face directly forward, towards the brown faded shut door. Occasionally blinking, the lids of his eyes slowly lower, but as every tic from the clock sounds, his eye lids slowly rise.

So there he sits, seeming lifeless on the ground, with his eyes slightly open and the skin around them as if melting. Dead as the house surrounding him, lays his aged frame. Quiet, peaceful, and patiently he waits; until his ears sharply sprout to the distant touch of a cottoned covered foot kissing the ground.