The Aging of a Dog
The Aging of a Dog
Over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed changes in my oldest corgi, Cooper. They’re subtle in some ways, but in others they feel like loud reminders that time is moving on faster than I’d like. He doesn’t walk with the same spring in his step anymore. His movements are slower, more deliberate. He struggles to hold his pee as long as he used to. He no longer dares to jump down from the bed like he once did, bounding off like he was still a puppy. These days, he chooses the careful path—the one that doesn’t jar his aging body quite so much.
It’s hard to watch. Cooper has been with me for so many chapters of my life. He’s been a constant, a companion who has asked for nothing more than love, food, and a spot by my side. And now, in this stage of his life, he still gives love as freely as ever, but I can see that he needs more from me. More patience. More gentleness. More understanding. He still looks at me with those same eyes that once lit up at every tossed ball, every door opening, every “let’s go.” The difference now is that his body can’t always keep up with his spirit.
That’s the bittersweet truth of having dogs. They give us everything they have, every ounce of love and loyalty, but their time with us is heartbreakingly short. We know this from the beginning, but it doesn’t make it easier when the years catch up with them.
Cooper has slowed down, yes, but he still makes his way to me when I sit on the couch. He still wants to curl up nearby. He still sighs contentedly when I scratch behind his ears. He still cares, still loves, still tries. And that, more than anything, reminds me that while his pace may have changed, his heart hasn’t.
As dog owners, we carry an unspoken promise to care for them not just when they’re young and full of energy, but especially when they’re old and need us the most. It means cleaning up after accidents without frustration. It means slowing down our pace to match theirs. It means lifting them gently when their legs don’t work like they used to. And it means being present, even when we know the time left is shorter than we’d like.
I don’t know how much time Cooper and I have left together, but I do know this: every day with him is a gift. His slower steps may remind me that life is fragile, but they also remind me to cherish what we have right now. The joy, the love, the quiet companionship. Those things don’t age.
Someday, the time will come when I’ll have to say goodbye. But today, he’s still here. Today, I can still reach down and feel his fur, see his eyes, and know he loves me. And today—that’s enough.
