I’m afraid of a dog’s old age. Long, painful, gray and dank. With icy paws that you lovingly warm and rub. With lousy hearing, where you simply have to keep the dog on the leash for a second, even in the fields, and be right in front of the dog, repeating and pointing.

With a slowly, slowly fading gaze, as the familiar, cheerful dog briefly flickers at the very bottom of the pupil.

With uncertain paw movements and a sad, hurt face: “How can it be that I can’t keep up with my beloved owner.”

I fear a dog’s old age, pitch black and deaf, for those deep sleeps into which a retired dog occasionally falls. For those moments when, coming home, you don’t see a gray nose and tail among the noses greeting you. And, your heart dropping like a stone, you rush off to look for your beloved pensioner. And you find him just sleeping peacefully, wrapped in blankets on the forbidden (I think?) sofa.

I fear old age for its dates. For the numbers, for the days, for the minutes. For the awkward silence of my friend, the veterinarian. For the illnesses that old age brings. For the impotence and helplessness. For time, which is always against you. For the risk that is somehow stupid, endless, but in no way noble.

For… Yes, damn it, for everything!

…and at that moment, looking at the second hand of the watch and the speedometer, skidding to a stop outside the clinic, I understood it all completely. My beloved dog’s old age is my nightmare. Inevitable, because that’s life. And at the same time, a nightmare.

Love your senior dog. And don’t skimp on anything for her, even if it seems she has everything.

Give more.

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