Just over fourteen years old. I remember him as a tiny puppy, a little ball of fluff. I grew up with him. Walks on the field, days at the beach, holidays together, playing in the garden. Every day.
He grew very old, his memory leaving him, his sight and hearing slowly failing. His legs collapsing beneath him.
On Sunday night, he took a turn for the worse. My Mum called me in the morning and I went to say goodbye. He stood still, he couldnt move, his eyes were blank and I could tell he was as good as gone already. I stroked that magnificent, glossy fur one last time.
I couldn’t go with them when they took him to the pound to be put down. It’s too quiet at my Mum’s house now, emptier. I can feel him missing.