14/10/2025
When your dog starts getting old, something inside you quietly flips a switch. You block it out, try not to think about it, and pretend time isn’t moving as fast as it is. Sure, you notice the graying muzzle, the cloudy eyes, the slower steps. It’s just like with people — only it hits deeper. It hurts in a way that’s hard to put into words.
It feels like just yesterday you brought home that clumsy little puppy — the one who chewed through a mountain of shoes, tangled himself in phone chargers, peed by the door, and woke you up at the crack of dawn just to play. Now that same dog struggles to jump up on the couch, the one where you watched TV together for years. You lift them gently, because they can’t do it without you anymore.
Outside, their steps are slower, their breathing heavier. But they still try to be who they used to be — chasing a stick, barking at kids, scaring off a curious cat. And you tell yourself, “They’re not old-old. Just a little older.” It’s how you make reality easier to bear.
Every day you notice new little changes — in the way they walk, the way they react, the way they rest. You ask yourself if they understand what’s happening. Then you lie to yourself: “We still have so much time.” But deep down, you know. And guilt creeps in — for the times you got mad over nothing, for leaving them home too long, for not playing enough. You try to make up for it, but nothing feels like enough.
When your dog grows old, be with them as much as you can. Talk to them — a lot. They listen, don’t doubt that for a second. Maybe no one has ever truly listened to you the way they do. Sleep next to them. Press against them. Once they kept you warm — now it’s your turn to keep them warm. Older dogs get cold. Buy them treats. Give them their favorite toys. Hold their face in your hands and tell them you love them.
When your dog grows old, become even more human than you’ve ever been. They gave you unconditional love. They made you laugh when you were broken. To them, you are their whole world. So just be there. Not as their owner. Not as their trainer. But as their one and only — loyal, gentle, and present. All the way to the very end.
— S. Rusakov
