When Your Dog Gets Older

Luna turned nine years old last month, and to say that I'm having a hard time with it would be the understatement of the year. I am hoarding film shots and polaroids of her like I'm ready to build a shrine in her name. I caught myself recording videos of her doing absolutely nothing, because I didn't want to take for granted all the do-nothing moments I enjoyed her sleeping and breathing and simply existing next to me. I am plotting getaway weekend trips for just me and her, so I can have as many memories and bonding experiences with her as I can, so I can feel confident knowing that I gave her the best life I could while she's still with me.

I've said for a long time now that Luna is the love of my life. My mom scoffs at the idea, but I mean it with my whole heart. I've never loved anyone this much and this hard. And with every day that passes, somehow I manage to find myself loving her even more than before.

She came into my life as a little puppy at the pound, just when I was 21, unemployed, feeling like my life was in limbo. I potty-trained and crate-trained her. I froze peanut butter and Greek yogurt and cream cheese into her baby blue puppy Kong. I watched her crawl all over our backyard, and I taught her to sit and roll over. She's always been a hyperactive little monster, always ready to play and never knowing when to stop. Some nights I'd wake up and catch her sleeping with her head on my shoulder, breathing into my neck, and I'd close my eyes and let myself fall back asleep because I didn't want her to move away.

Loving a senior dog is different from loving a puppy. But it's every bit as precious—and in some ways, I might even argue that it's more. There is something that stings, and touches my heart, when the baby girl who used to hop up on my bed effortlessly now needs me to help nudge her up a set of doggy stairs to get on top. When she used to walk me around the neighborhood like I was the one on the leash, and these days I have to slow down for her on our walk back to the house. The fact that I now have to keep a doggy ramp permanently in my car, because she sees the vet a lot more regularly now and she needs the ramp to get on and off. I used to experiment with all sorts of harnesses and walking leads to stop her from pulling me when she got too excited; now, we stick with the Help 'Em Up Harness so I can give her a boost when she needs to hop up or down.

When I look at her these days, I see a lot more white in the fur on her face than there used to be. It makes me sad, to think about where she is in her lifespan, and it makes me want to bargain with the universe to give me more time. And at the same time, I feel an immense sense of gratitude—that I got to be with her through her teething puppy months, through her big-eared adolescence, and now through her senior years. It feels like a privilege that I get to be with her for all of her life; it just breaks my heart that she won't get to be here for the rest of mine.