Man's best friend.

Scotty knows I've always provided him food, 

water, exercise, and lots of love.

But I can't reverse his age.

I can't heal his urinary track issues,

his joint problems, or cognitive dysfunction.

His confused eyes

don't know what's happening.

If he's able to walk at all,

he needs help getting up. 

He knows he can't jump on the coach to my lap

like he used to.

The mechanisms operating his bones

are rusted and worn.

He's old and tired.

Maybe he knows the piles of colored leaves 

he used to run through outside are

out of reach now. 

He's a crushing loss in the making.

To know it hurts.

The dogs in the neighbor's windows,

the one's raising hell when we pass,

look for him. They know our usual time,

but we never show anymore.

Most days, I lay next to him on the floor,

...waiting.

We had to stop visiting his companions 

at the park.

I think somehow they know things.

They sense he's not coming back.

 

Scotty's last chapter is almost over.

He's an epilogue,

a conclusion, with a space

that can't be filled by any other.

But that's life. It happens.

And life can leave empty spaces.

His collar already sits next to his picture

on the fire place

as a monument. 

Author's Note

While talking to a friend, she shared the state of bad health for her dog. This came out of that.