he’d have long pendulous ears 
that dipped in his water bowl
and painted tracks across the hardwoods
like a trail of tears.
He’d curl up at my feet, 
lying down in a sudden, 
heavy-limbed
surrender to gravity.
His watery eyes would look up at me
from beneath thick folds of a rutted brow
and a knowing would pass between us. 
He’d reluctantly stand when I stood.
He’d follow me into the kitchen, 
back up the stairs 
for the socks I’d forgotten 
to pull from the dresser drawer, 
and into the bathroom 
where he would wait, 
exhaling doleful sighs.
He’d follow me out again,
his gait slow and lumbering as if
the dysplasia that throbbed in his hips
informed his every move.
He’d poke his nose at the ball
but wouldn’t pick it up
and if I threw it
he’d just watch it fly,
stolid and uninterested.
He would be my four-legged shadow,
my silent witness 
glued to me by the forces of nature.
And when I’d curl up at night
he’d make the climb 
up into the bed
despite his pain
and press his body
along my shin bones
and stay with me
until morning.