By Anne Schuchman 
The Old Dog wasn’t always old. Once, years ago, he was the New Dog, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they say. His fur was soft and white, and he bounced rather than walked. But somehow over time, the New Dog has turned into the Old Dog—his fur now yellowed, his movements slow and uncertain. As I watch him today, moving blindly through the kitchen, nails clicking on the floor, I can’t help but see the reflection of our family’s changes.
He came to us after my father-in-law, the Old Man, passed away. The New Dog had been his companion after my mother-in-law died, a small comfort in that large, empty house. The Old Man, once strong and imposing, had grown frail. His life seemed to revolve around small pleasures—chocolate, beer, and this little dog. When the Old Man died, there was talk of putting the New Dog down. But I said that was ridiculous, so the New Dog came to live with us.
The New Dog made the transition from the house with the Old Man to a house with four young children with grace. He never quite became housebroken, at least not 100 percent, but he was gentle and good-natured. The kids loved him—dressing him up and painting his nails. He became part of the family, a happy constant amidst the chaos of raising children. But like childhood itself, his youth couldn’t last forever.
The lifespan of a family dog mirrors the arc of childhood. By the time the children were teenagers, the Old Dog had begun to show his age. His hearing started to fade, his vision too. He stumbled more often and had accidents around the house. I began to buy dog diapers and urine remover by the gallons, just as I once bought baby diapers and wipes. Life, it seems, had come full circle.
The children, too, were changing. They no longer needed me in the same way. They stayed in their rooms, emerging only to declare the house boring and the town too small. They were growing up, drifting further away with each passing year. Watching them, I felt like a child who had let go of a handful of balloons, their colors beautiful but receding into the sky.
But through it all, the Old Dog remained a fixture. He slept more and more, curled up in the bottom of a closet, sometimes forgotten for hours. When he’d shuffle out, he felt like a memory, a reminder of the home life we had once shared—messy, loud, chaotic, and full of love.
It became harder to ignore the Old Dog’s decline. His accidents grew more frequent, his body more frail, and there was that cough that would shake him periodically. I would ask the vet how I would know when it was time, and she always told me the same thing, “You’ll just know.” I wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t in pain, but one day I found myself on my hands and knees coaxing him to take a bite of his food, and I made the call.
Even in the days leading up to that final vet appointment, we clung to hope, convincing ourselves he might be getting better. But deep down, we knew. The kids each said their goodbyes in their own way, some stoic, some emotional, each grappling with the reality of loss. My husband and I took the Old Dog to the vet, our youngest child crying quietly in the backseat. It felt like the end of an era.
In the vet’s office, I held him one last time, whispering into his fur, “We love you so much, you’re the best dog ever, and thank you, thank you, thank you.” I promised him a doggie heaven filled with slow squirrels and endless treats. His panting slowed, then stopped. And just like that, he was gone.
There can be a strange sense of completion in loss, watching life unfold and then slip away. The Old Dog, like our children, had grown up and grown old before my eyes. His passing, though painful, was a reminder of the beauty in the fleeting nature of life. Childhood, like a family dog, doesn’t last forever. But the memories, like the warmth of an Old Dog, stay with you.
by Kristen Winiarski 
by Jenny Albers 
by Nickey J Dunn 
