I am a senior dog. My muzzle is a little gray and my joints are a little stiff. I don’t run as fast or jump as high as I did when I was a pup. But I still like to go on a nice short walk. I love to lay at my human’s feet or sit by my human’s side.
My eyes are a little cloudy, and I don’t see every little bug or spider that crosses my path. I don’t see the dog across the street, or the cat in the yard. I can look at my human, though, and see him with all the love in my heart.
I don’t hear every little sound like I used to. I don’t bark at the birds or the squirrels much anymore. Sometimes I don’t even bark at the door bell. Occasionally I will bark at the wind. But I do love to hear the sound of my human’s voice.
I don’t have bad habits. I don’t chew up shoes or newspapers. I don’t pee or poop in the house. I don’t scratch at the door. I don’t jump on visitors. I sit, I stay, I lay down. My humans taught me well.
I don’t know where my humans are. I don’t know why I’m in this cold and damp prison. I don’t like it here and it makes my bones hurt. I don’t like to hear the other dogs bark and cry. I don’t like the smell of this place.
The humans here treat me OK, but they don’t love me like my human did. I hear them talking about me in quiet voices. It doesn’t sound good. They shake their heads a lot when they pass by the bars of my cell. Why am I here?
If you will take me home with you, I will love you forever. All I need is a warm bed, a soft touch, some kind words and good food. Please don’t pass by my cell and shake your head. I am old, but my heart is young and full of love. I have a lot of love left to give and I will love you for the rest of my life. Please take me home with you.