I can see it happening in slow, quiet ways. The stilling, the softening, the gentle retreat from the energetic chaos of youth. Mugatu, our dog who has been with us for so many years, is slowing down. His steps are more measured now, his once-bright eyes clouded with cataracts. He still wags his tail when we come home, still presses his warm body against us in the evenings, and don’t get him started with his ball, but there is a weight to his movements that wasn’t there before. A carefulness. A fragility that makes my heart ache.

We have had him since he was a tiny puppy, my husband bringing him into our marriage when he was just a year old. In many ways, he has been a witness to the life we’ve built together. He was there when we moved into our first home, curling up in the corner of an unfamiliar space until it became familiar. He was there through the laughter and the long nights, the quiet moments and the loud ones, always present, always loyal. He was there for all the miscarriages, a quiet presence to fill my empty arms. He welcomed our children home, patient and gentle as tiny hands reached for him. And now, he is here, growing older, reminding me of the passage of time in a way that is both beautiful and deeply, deeply painful.

There is something profoundly humbling about caring for an aging dog. It is a lesson in love—the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything in return, that doesn’t turn away when things become inconvenient or difficult. It is the love that tucks a blanket around him when he shivers, that lifts him gently when stairs become too much, that lingers just a little longer on the soft fur of his ears because I know, in a way I don’t want to admit, that time is slipping through my fingers.

Aging is a quiet thief. It doesn’t come all at once but in small, almost imperceptible moments. The way he no longer jumps up when we get up from the couch. The way he stands at the back door, hesitant, as if gathering himself before stepping outside. The way his naps stretch longer, his dreams more frequent, his paws twitching as if chasing something just beyond his reach.

And yet, even in this, there is beauty. A beauty in the slowing down, in the simple joy of a warm sunbeam on his fur, in the comfort of familiar voices and gentle hands. He is still here. Still loving, still trusting. Teaching me, even now, that love is not measured in years but in moments. That presence—real, unwavering presence—is what matters most.

I know that one day, my home will feel different. There will be an absence where he used to be, a silence that will settle into the spaces he once filled. And I know it will hurt. But for now, I will cherish the quiet moments. I will run my hands over his aging fur, whisper his name with the same affection I always have, and sit with him just a little longer. Because this, too, is love. The staying. The seeing. The honoring of a life well lived.

And what a beautiful life it has been.