The Last Walk

We took the same route. Past the mailbox you always had opinions about. Past the yard with the cat you never stopped believing you'd catch someday. Past the spot where you found that sandwich in 2019 and I swear you smiled. You were slower today. I matched your pace the way you've matched mine for thirteen years— without comment, without complaint, without needing to know where we were going as long as we went together. The vet said months ago. We bought you months. Good months. Bacon-for-breakfast months. Sleeping-on-the-bed- even-though-we-said-no months. You earned them all of them by being the only one who was happy— genuinely, delusionally, tail-waggingly happy— to see me every single time I walked through the door. Even when I was only gone for five minutes. Even when I forgot the treat. Even when I was the worst version of myself and everyone else could tell. You couldn't tell. Or you didn't care. Same thing, with dogs. I carried you home from that last walk. You were too tired. You put your head on my chest and I felt a heartbeat that has been the metronome of my life for thirteen years slow down like a song that knows it's ending. I held you. That was my job from the first day— hold this small, ridiculous, perfect thing and keep it safe. I held you until the holding was all that was left. Good boy. Best boy. The only one who ever loved me exactly as much as I needed without being asked. Go chase that cat.