Old Dog

He’d launch his puppy body like a clumsy missile toward the front door the moment he heard the deadbolt click, his big labrador paws skittering with a manic clack-clack-clack across the hardwood floor and hurl himself—ears flapping, tail frantic—into the welcoming arms of a summer afternoon.

Now he has a silver face, stiff joints, heavy eyes. Hesitates at the door before it opens. Hides in a bathtub during thunderstorms. Yelps and twitches in his sleep. Growls at things no one else can hear.