I have a vision. It’s hazy, but I see myself in my twenties, driving down the road. I glance over and notice an old man gently petting his old dog, pouring out affection. I wonder, why does he love that dog so much?
Now I realize—I am that old man. The dog at my side was once my puppy when I was a younger man. I remember teaching him not to jump, not to use the house as his bathroom, how to come when called. I remember his wild joy chasing a ball, the way he tormented the cats with his endless energy.
Then came the struggles: torn ACLs, painful surgeries, a plate removed after infection. Still, he learned to run again. I remember the terrifying night of his sudden nosebleed, how we discovered his bleeding disorder. The emergency vet finally stopped it with a drug once carried by Japanese soldiers for battlefield wounds. It worked, and he lived.
There was the time he darted across the road to bark at the neighbor’s dog and got clipped by a car. Miraculously, he escaped with only bruises. The neighbor called Animal Control, but I only felt relief that he was still with us.
He’s been my companion on hikes, racing through the woods after deer, always returning with that disappointed look, as if to say, “Why weren’t you by my side?”
And now—this afternoon—I step into the backyard for a smoke break. His fur is white, hiding the gray that I know is there. His back legs wobble, and he leans against me for balance as I stroke him. A car passes, and I wonder: does some young man glance over and see us, the way I once saw an old man and his dog? Does he notice the love, the history, the lifetime of shared trials and joy?
I hope so. Because in that moment, he would understand: this old dog has been my companion, my family, and my teacher. And every bit of love I give him now is love he has already given me—many times over.
