This was written on October 24, 2015. I came across it today, browsing my old notes as I sat in the living of the home I grew up in. Despite his age, Sherlock still has a puppy-like zest for life; his eyes brighten and tail rapidly engages every time an eye meets his. 

I wiped away the coffee rings on the table now outlined by dirt. Reminiscent of the long chats over coffee and breakfast with my mom.

Sometimes I don’t know how much time has gone by until I play our family dog. Included in his usual treat-for-tricks gig is the command to “jump up.” He gave a pathetic push of his hind legs, without lifting his paws off the floor.

The hips are usually the first to rust on a sheepdog. Sherlock, a border collie, is not escaping this fate. He looks the part of a young pup though, due to the way his black and white fur has always blended into grey around his snout. And his knowing brown eyes still hold the same hopeful and ecstatic shine when you dare say “walk,” the word binding you to a leashed-hand trek around the block.

Despite obvious appearances, age seems to creep on our beloved canines so swiftly.

He’s trained to not pull when we’re walking, but it’s clear that this lack of rebellion is mixed with his lack of ability to do so. His energy has decreased. No longer a whippersnapper, Sherlock pants more often, and aside from a quick jaunt in the park when he is released from the rope that grants me control, he soon lies in the grass and chooses to spend this brief freedom rolling on his back in a relaxed manner.

Dog years.

A gentle description of the short span of breath a (hu)man’s best friend is allowed on earth. We see the time pass on these creatures because of how speedily it comes upon them.

The dirt on the outdoor table imprints past conversations.

And the gentle winding down of a beloved dog’s paws…imprint time.

-smb