These six legs have traveled together for a dozen years, slowing down now but still able to feel the ground beneath our feet and paws. We've braved all kinds of weather, always on a mission to see new things and familiar spots that we must stop to smell. I've tried many times, on walks around the pond, to count how many times he lifted a leg, but gave up after twenty.
We eat our meals together, and I'm aware I shouldn't be giving him people food, but he's more of a person than most humans I know, so people food it is. He knows that when I filled a paper plate with what I didn't eat, it was his for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, he had a bowl of dog food I kept full, but he sometimes showed his dislike for it by shoveling the kibbles onto the floor and waiting for me to scold him with stern words that I knew made him laugh.
He's losing his hearing now, and I have to shout or give him a gentle nudge, so he hears me. His rear quarter is getting worse, and I find myself just handing him a treat rather than making him get up for it. I know he appreciates that. He's always been my shadow, no matter where I go, never out of my sight, even when he has to get up just to make sure I was close by.
He's the same number of years as me in dog life, a couple of senior citizens shuffling through our days, and grateful for each other's company. Did I mention he can talk? Especially when we have a visitor, he lets out sounds much like someone would to welcome someone into their home. He loves the attention, especially from my grandkids, who once threw him a ball that now sits in his toy box because his hips don't work too well. But he loves to be petted and his belly scratched.
I often find myself looking into his eyes, once vibrant and full of energy, now cloudy and straining to avoid obstacles. He means the world to me, and when he's gone, a part of me will go with him. I pray for him every night, asking God to look over everyone I love and care for, hoping he hears me and lets my shadow sniff a hundred more trees, throw his food to annoy me, and look at me through cloudy eyes, making sure I'm close by.
He's losing his hearing now, and I have to shout or give him a gentle nudge, so he hears me. His rear quarter is getting worse, and I find myself just handing him a treat rather than making him get up for it. I know he appreciates that. He's always been my shadow, no matter where I go, never out of my sight, even when he has to get up just to make sure I was close by.
He's the same number of years as me in dog life, a couple of senior citizens shuffling through our days, and grateful for each other's company. Did I mention he can talk? Especially when we have a visitor, he lets out sounds much like someone would to welcome someone into their home. He loves the attention, especially from my grandkids, who once threw him a ball that now sits in his toy box because his hips don't work too well. But he loves to be petted and his belly scratched.
I often find myself looking into his eyes, once vibrant and full of energy, now cloudy and straining to avoid obstacles. He means the world to me, and when he's gone, a part of me will go with him. I pray for him every night, asking God to look over everyone I love and care for, hoping he hears me and lets my shadow sniff a hundred more trees, throw his food to annoy me, and look at me through cloudy eyes, making sure I'm close by.
Mike 2026 
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