Gus and the Slow Walks

Gus used to pull me down the street at a trot. Now a walk around one block takes forty-five minutes, and I would not trade a minute of it.

His muzzle is white. His back legs wobble on the curb. He stops at every mailbox and every tree. I used to be impatient. Now I understand that he is reading the news. Every sniff is a headline.

We have made changes. A ramp for the car, rugs on the slippery kitchen floor, a thick bed by the window. He takes a joint supplement our vet recommended, and we go to the clinic every six months now instead of once a year.

The best change was mine. I stopped counting steps. I started sitting down on the curb when he did. We watch the world go by together, and neighbors stop to say hello.

He is slower, but he is not sad. He still wags when I say the word walk. He still wiggles when we turn onto our street. I am learning to be that kind of old.