Her knees are shot, her shoulders hunched, her fur has taken on a fuzzy, old-dog texture. Her body gets wider as her face grows gaunt. She has a hard time getting up and down the stairs. She has a hard time getting up and down at all.
I'm not ready.
I look at her, and it breaks my heart.
To me, she will always be the dog who bounded up hills and leapt over rocks, who ran until her knees literally gave out. She will always be the most joyous dog I've ever known.
I hope there's still some joy in her.
I hope she can stay much, much longer with me.
But I think I have to start preparing myself for some sadness.
I'm just glad she's home.