The Heartbreaking Privilege

On loving a dog long enough to see the years catch up, and the quiet responsibility of being there when it matters most

Loving a dog is easy in the beginning when they’re strong, fast, and full of life.
But if you’re lucky to walk with them long enough, you’ll reach a season where the pace slows, the years begin to show, and what they need from you quietly changes.
It’s in that season, love is no longer measured in moments, but in presence.
This is the story of the part no one prepares you for.

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Watching a dog’s muzzle soften from the deep colors of youth to sugar-frosted white is the most heartbreaking privilege you will ever agree to. No one talks about this part enough. The honor of watching your dog grow old comes wrapped in the ache of knowing time is moving faster than your heart is ready for. But I wouldn’t trade a single second of the time spent for the heartbreak I know will come one day.

In the last two weeks, that truth has thrust itself into the forefront of my psyche like an unwelcome but undeniable guest. I have watched Dunham, my almost-thirteen-year-old constant companion and hunting partner, experience a rapid succession of small injuries that are not dramatic on their own but together paint a clear picture: his body is in its final chapters. The dog who once carved 400-yard arcs across vast prairie is now navigating our backyard with the careful deliberation that knows every step matters.

It started on our deck late one afternoon recently. I was rocking in a patio chair, letting the warm spring sun and the chorus of songbirds wash over me while our three dogs patrolled the backyard landscaping like a small reconnaissance team. Then came a sharp, unmistakable smack from the brick steps leading up the retaining wall into the wooded part of the yard. I turned just in time to see Dunham continue forward as if nothing had happened. “Hm,” I thought, “he’s okay.” But when he swung his head back toward me, his once-rusty-and-white beard was suddenly blood-red and dripping. He stood there panting, not in pain, but in that familiar “are you coming?” expression he has given me for over a decade. I sprinted to him. The smack had been his open mouth catching the sharp 90-degree edge of the brick step. One tooth was completely sheared off. I found the broken piece lying on the ground like a small, sad relic. My heart sank as I realized his clouded eyes and slower reactions had betrayed him. I cleaned the wound, stopped the bleeding, and whispered, “You’ve got to be careful, old man. Take it easy, you’re no spring chicken these days.” He looked at me as if to say he would try, but we both knew better.

A few days later, while I was reading in the sitting room as the morning glow crept in through the wall of eastern windows, Dunham performed his daily ritual. He circled the house, greeting every cat, soaking his beard in the water bowl, and hunted for any bully sticks he deliberately keeps stashed like treasures. After his rounds, he climbed onto the couch beside me — front legs up, pause, back legs follow, six deliberate circles — before crashing his hip against mine in the exact spot he has claimed for years. I didn’t think twice about it until I noticed him biting and fussing at his back leg. As I investigated, I found two identical cuts, each at a perfect 45-degree angle, had been gouged across the skin. I still have no idea what caused them. The book hit the floor. I ran for the first-aid kit, cleaned and bandaged the wounds, and sat there afterward just staring at him with a lump in my throat the size of the tennis ball that lay next to him.

Age is no longer a background note; it’s the loudest thing in the room these days.

Just four days ago, while admiring the blossoming dogwoods on a walk around our property, the younger boys — Theo and Henry — turned our yard into their own Indianapolis 500, racing in wild circles. Dunham, no longer able to join the game, stood in the infield like a proud spectator. Then, in the space of a single turn of my head to point something out to my wife, he went from standing to sitting, agitated and reluctant to rise. His hind legs simply would not hold him, and he was unable to walk. I carried him back inside, all nearly-thirteen years of solid muscle and memory in my arms, and settled him on the couch. There were no visible wounds this time. Whatever it is, it’s internal, soft-tissue, and tied directly to the slow betrayal of an aging body. We’re waiting on a vet appointment as I write this, but the message is already clear: our gentle old soul is living the final chapters of his life.

Notice I said chapters, plural. I refuse to call any single moment “the end” until his final breath leaves him. Still, the ache is real and immediate. As I type these words, the lump in my throat feels almost impossible to swallow. My eyes are a reservoir holding back floodwaters. I know what is coming. I lived it nearly six years ago with Gus.

Gus was twelve-and-a-half when his body began its final decline. You can read the full story of what he meant to me within the story A Dog’s Unseen Lessons: Finding Life’s Wisdom in the Unexpected. Back then, I was splitting my time between Baltimore and North Carolina, driving through DC traffic every weekend just to get home to my wife and the boys. I remember the night I watched Gus try to climb into his favorite chair, and his back leg looked more like a foreign object than a working limb. Two weeks later, he was gone.

Gus’ loss impacted me significantly. However……

Dunham’s loss, when it comes, will be tenfold harder for reasons I’ll save for another piece.

However, that is what we sign up for when we bring a dog into our lives. We don’t stand in the shelter or pick out a puppy thinking about the goodbye. We think only of the years ahead. Yet the gentle reminder that those years are finite grows louder with every slower step, every deeper nap, every new white hair that replaces the rusty red.

And still… this is the privilege no one talks about enough. People talk about puppyhood, great achievements through the years, and the remembrance portions aplenty. The years that include decline are kept quietly to ourselves. Unfortunately, I can relate and see why.

We have covered thousands of miles together across North Dakota prairie, Montana grasslands, Kansas’ Flint & Smoky Hills, Indiana fields, and the pine-scented trails of North Carolina. I cannot count the number of points Dunham has held under vast skies or retrieves made in icy waterfowl waters. Sincere admiration has been earned by anyone who’s hunted behind Dunham. He was force, fire, and devotion, all wrapped in wiry muscle, with a God-given old-soul personality. I know this will sound biased, but it’s true: Dunham is truly one of one.

But the hunts, miles, and birds are only part of it.

Three years ago, when my own health cratered and I was confined to a bed for long stretches, wondering if I would see tomorrow, let alone the end of the week, Dunham never left my side. Not once. He didn’t need to be told to stay. He simply did it on his own accord. He refused to budge, even when family came to assist for nearly two months. Day after day. Night after night. A quiet, steady presence that asked for nothing and gave everything.

And somewhere in that season, when my world slowed to a crawl, and my perspective began to shift, he felt it. Dogs always do. The nights when my breathing was different. The nights where, instead of absent-mindedly running a hand along his back as I fell asleep, my hands were folded together instead — praying, searching, leaning into God’s Grace. He never moved. Never questioned it. He stayed right there, pressed against me, as if he understood that something deeper was unfolding.

That’s the part that stays with me now.

Because as his body begins to fail him, the way mine once failed me, I understand something with more clarity than I ever have before:

This is not a burden.

This is a privilege.

A privilege to return even a fraction of what he has given me.

This is the part we don’t think about in the beginning. When we pick them out, bring them home, and bring them into our lives. When the years ahead feel limitless, and the idea of an ending feels so far removed it’s almost irrelevant.

But if we’re lucky — truly lucky — we get to this part of the journey.

We get to the years where the pace slows. Where the runs turn into walks. Where the dog who once pulled you forward now needs you to slow down enough to stay beside him. And in those years, the agreement changes.

They gave us everything in their prime. Every ounce of energy. Every instinct. Every piece of their heart.

Now it’s our turn.

We owe them our patience. Our presence. Our willingness to meet them where they are, not where they used to be.

That is the deal.

That is the privilege.

And it is a privilege I would accept a million times over, no matter how much it hurts.

Last October, on what would be Dunham’s final hunt as he fully entered retirement, I wrote these words after our last walk together on the North Dakota prairie:

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Friday marked the end of an era — our “last walk.”
My old hunting partner, Dunham, took to the North Dakota prairie one final time.
He’s twelve and a half now. His eyes, once sharp as the prairie wind, are beginning to cloud. His hearing nearly gone. His stride, slower, but still proud. Yet his heart… still pure fire.

…

I’d be lying if I said I was ready. I’m not.

…

This “last walk” was more than a hunt. It was grace. It was closure.
It’s a reminder that life gives us fleeting seasons, and none of them are guaranteed.

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Those words still sit heavy in my chest.

Dunham’s fire flickers now, but it hasn’t gone out. Every morning, he still finds his way to me. Every evening, I still run my hand across that sugar-frosted muzzle and feel the full weight of the years we’ve been given.

The white isn’t something to mourn on its own.

It’s proof.

Proof that we made it here, we were given the time, and I was trusted with a life that chose me as its whole world.

So I slow down and match his pace.

I carry him when he needs it.

I sit with him longer than I used to.

And when the day comes — and it will — I will be right there beside him, just like he has always been beside me.

Because that’s the promise.

And because, even knowing how this ends…. I would still choose him.

Every time.

(**UPDATE** Dunham spent the day at our Veterinarian the week of this article’s posting. It’s a soft tissue injury. His hips are excellent. Full-body scans revealed nothing. God answered my prayers. Dunham still has chapters. plural.)

God Bless,

Abram

Final Note: If you’ve walked through this season with a dog of your own, you understand there are no shortcuts through it, only the choice to stay. However many days we’re given, I hope you take them slow, hold them close, and don’t miss a single one.