An Old Dog and a Young Dog
I took Comet and Killian on the same walk at two different times on the same day, because it’s not good to overtax the joints of either old dogs or young puppies, and because it’s easier to manage them one at a time when one doesn’t always hear me and the other doesn’t always listen.
Even so, if I stop on the path to fiddle with the camera, or to track a bird across the sky, or just to ponder, both will walk ahead a little and then notice I haven’t come along. And both will turn halfway to check on me. But Comet’s used to my quirks, while Killian is so new to the world that most of what I do must baffle him entirely.
When I whistle, only one comes bounding back, all ears, and drums the earth with eager paws. For the other, my whistle doesn’t carry loud enough on the breeze: he’s not all ears anymore. But eventually he ambles quietly back, just because.
It’s hard to watch my old friend and know he has only a handful of such walks left in him, to feel the cooler breeze of autumn and know he may not see summer again. But if nothing else, he has proven how foolish it is for me to think I can number the days of a dog or a man.
So for now, the strongest feeling is the one that says we have been here before and will be here again, that puppies drum the earth with their paws as their fur darkens, and old dogs walk softer as their faces lighten, and for a moment, if we can forget to count the days before or behind, we can be both.
