built different

"That's the problem with these dogs." The vet makes a gesture that suggests he’s not just talking about the two in the room with us, but all dogs.

"They're pack animals. They’ll stick with the group no matter what. Keep going until they just… can’t. They’ll be in unbearable pain, and still keep up like nothing’s wrong."

He pauses.

"That’s the first problem—they look fine. They evolved that way. Move with the pack, hide the limp, fake the energy. Until they slow down. And then, they die."

His voice softens.

"The second problem is time. It’s different for them. A year to us? That’s seven for them. A week feels like two months. So when something happens—

it feels sudden. But it’s not."

I glance at you.

Your eyes stay forward. Your jaw doesn’t move.

I reach for your leg—just gently.

You whisper, “I kind of expected this.”

I didn’t.

But now I see you differently—

faithful in your quiet way, 

like the oldest dog in the pack.

How you’ll keep up until you can’t.

How you’ll bear the weight without a word.

No grimace. No warning. Just go and go and go—

until you're gone.

We drive home in silence.

You shift in your seat—barely, but I notice.

The sun is low. The road blurs.

Still, you keep pace beside me.

Still pretending everything’s fine.

We will make it home tonight.