The Old Man

He's 12 years old. That's 84 years in a dog's life. He has arthiritis, and some skin problems. He's become terrified of thunderstorms and chews the siding on the house, the television cable, and anything else that seems to be a hassle for us to fix. He's originally a Phoenician, but moved to Oklahoma when he was about a year old. We've hauled him from house to house, and his living quarters have ranged from a hay-lined doghouse in the backyard run, to Colin's bedroom. He doesn't like intruders in the backyard, so he bites just about anyone who comes through the gate...unless it's a kid. Then his tail wags and I imagine that he wishes he could still run and fetch a ball or a frisbee. But those days are gone. His hips look like they ache, and he has hard time getting up these days. But he never complains. He never fails to wag his tail when we come outside, and if he's in the garage when we come home from being gone, he still prances around a little as if it's the most exciting moment of his day. When I think about it (and I don't think about it enough) I realize that I love the old man, and I'm going to miss him when he's gone.

"Thorns may hurt you, men desert you, sunlight turn to fog;
but you're never friendless ever, if you have a dog."
--Douglas Mallock