He walks with a limp now—arthritis in both a front and a back leg give him the creaks when he stands. He does not chase the ball in the yard more than once these days, preferring to chase it down, chomp it in his labrador's soft mouth, and then rest, triumphantly with his prize in the cool grass. He sleeps more than he used to. When he runs, which he still does every time the UPS man drives anywhere near the neighborhood, or the cat next door saunters across the neighbors back deck, or I turn on the waffle ball pitching machine to take a little BP, he runs noticeably slower than he did a year ago.
But he is still graceful in the water, and he will swim for as long as I am willing to throw the toy into the lake for him to retrieve.
For this reason, too, we will spend a few more days at the beach in Ludington this summer.
I wonder if he dreams, like I do, of a heaven—perpetually sunny and sixty-five—where no one would think to put up a sign saying “no dogs allowed” on any beach?
