Today I saw Duc (Duke) falling from a van while I was walking with the dogs. Duc is a labrador, or a golden retriever or… it doesn’t matter, Duc is a dog. He’s twelve. I know it because I stopped to watch, thinking something wrong was happening, knowing that if I were true, probably I did nothing to help (I’m a coward, I suppose). I know it because I saw his master (we still call that way who have… who live with dogs). I know it because I’ve been talking with him.
I don’t use to talk with unknown people, and less when I guess they are on trouble. But I could not refrain me, the man was broken, and he needed to talk with someone. I suppose he saw me too, with the dogs, going there to know what was happening, and he though (and he was right) I though he was hurting the dog.
He only opened the door. Duc has fall because his legs (“its rear paw”, say people without dog) did not supported him when he was going down.
Less than a year ago, Duc and his master (his friend) were used to walk three hours every day through the fields and the forest around the town. Now he just can help Duc to go up the van, to cross half town until the park. Once there, they walk ten minutes, in a very slow pace.
Duc walks, smells, pees, smells, poos, smells, and continues smelling and walking. In a very slow pace, without complaints.
The man is broken. Not only because he knows Duc will leave soon. He’s broken because he’s eighty-one. And he knows if he pets another dog, he will die before the dog, and he “wants not to pass the load of a dog to anyone when he will pass away”. He’s broken because he knows he will live the last years of his life without a dog. With his wife, but without a dog. Probably with his children, but without a dog.
If you don’t live with a dog, probably you don’t know what I am talking about.
See you, Duc. You will be missed.