I see my dog getting older every day; maybe it is that he is on an accelerated schedule of aging or I am on an accelerated schedule of noticing. He now stands back from his water bowl as far as he possibly can when he's drinking water, and he will only ever eat food from his bowl when the pellets line up perfectly symmetrically in his bowl—a symmetry he of course interrupts when he eats, making food-bowl management an annoying daily task. Then, sometimes he will not eat at all. I understand this to be a perfectly predictable thing. My sister-in-law is a vet tech and according to her, primitive breeds, a category to which Wreck belongs, lose a little bit of step as they age. I suspect that I am also of a primitive breed.
Wreck has been this guy in my life now for just about 10 years, nearly all my 20s, and I am his steward. Wreck has a heart murmur (he has always had a heart murmur) and increasingly our visits to the vet are visits I dread. The vet is wonderful and careful, everything you hope for, and she doesn't tell me anything that I don't know, and she explains to me (in a sotto voce way) that it is best for things to be, that surgery is expensive but moreover needless. Not pointless, but needless. It is this rational unfolding that I dread the most: It's all perfectly alright that his heart murmur grows worse and that things will be as they are.
I mean, this guy. I feel a something toward him tonight I guess because tonight he is confused, and I can't seem to do anything to help him shake it. My best friend for so long. Oh, I dread the day when I describe him to someone who has never had the excellent fortune to see him be all goofy, or annihilate crabs, or feel comforted by him while heartbroken. No more new friends for me.
