When our kids moved out, our house got painfully quiet. My wife, Mimi, wanted a dog to hike with by day, cuddle by night. I just wanted to travel. Eventually, she wore me down, and we ended up at the local shelter. After meeting dozens of dogs, we spied a 50-pound mutt sitting quietly in a cage.

With his mussed-up hair, warm brown eyes, he looked like an old man trapped inside a dog’s body. The staff suggested we foster first, to make sure Wyatt was a good fit. Then they told us he’d been hit by a car. He had two broken legs that needed surgery.

Of course, Mimi brought him home. But that night, I had a hard conversation with her: “If Wyatt can’t go on long hikes with us, maybe he’s not the right fit.” Mimi explained. “We all have broken parts and sometimes need help. Wyatt’s a part of our family now. He’s staying.”

This had to be the fastest foster fail ever. After Wyatt’s broken bones were fixed with pins and plates, he was confined to a crate for a month. At night, Mimi’d lie down beside him, reach between the bars, and scratch his ears so he wouldn’t cry. But in a matter of months, Wyatt was tackling six-mile hikes and cuddling with Mimi.

Wyatt’s now fifteen. He moves a lot slower these days — so do I. Wyatt sometimes walks into a room, completely forgetting why. I don’t do that… very often. While we’re sleeping, Wyatt will wander around our bedroom, before placing his paws on the edge of our bed. He nuzzles me, then asks me with his warm brown eyes, “Is everything ok? Are we good?” “We’re fine,” I whisper and guide him back to his bed. 

I like to think of this as practice for when Mimi and I we get old…er. 

With a Perspective, I’m Fred Brill.