For eleven years, the left side of the couch belonged to Buddy.
Every night, the second Linda sat down, he'd be up beside her with his chin on her knee before she'd even found the remote.
Then one night in March, he stood at the bottom of the couch, front paws on the cushion, and looked at her. And waited. And then he lay down on the rug instead.
He hasn't tried since.
Linda tells people it's his age. "He's an old man now." But that isn't the part that keeps her up.
What keeps her up is 3am. His collar jingling in the dark. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. She lies there listening, and some nights she gets up and sits on the kitchen floor with him, because she doesn't know what else to do.
It's the walk around the lake that's now the walk to the corner and back. And the strange thing nobody warns you about: she misses those walks more than he does.
It's the fear. Every time he hesitates at the stairs, there's a small voice asking whether this is the beginning of the end.
And it's the guilt. The feeling that there's something she should be doing, and she just doesn't know what it is.
She took him to the vet twice in two years. A joint chew for the stiffness. A medicated shampoo for the skin. She bought everything they suggested.
She manages it. Most people who love an older dog get very good at managing it.
Keep reading. This is the part nobody explains when your dog starts slowing down.