Maybe because words mean so much to me, silence means all the more. And maybe that is one reason animals mean so much to me—because they speak without words. In some ways, that makes them seem more trustworthy, and maybe, too, it means we listen more closely.

This dog fell asleep on the kitchen floor this morning while I was eating breakfast. He usually follows me from room to room, and I didn’t realize he hadn’t until I returned to the kitchen later and heard his breath, soft and rhythmic. My heart felt a twinge.

People often comment on how young he looks and seems, and they are right. But some moments reveal the underlying reality: he is twelve-and-a-half, and he is slowing down.

If a dog can carry your heart, then this one carries mine. For years he stood my ground with me, enduring my (then) husband’s angry tirades and outbursts. He would sit or stand beside me, and wait for it to be over—my faithful and brave companion. In the end, it was too much for him though. When the onslaught came, he would look at me and slink away. I understood. I would have done the same if I could.

Bear has been my witness and my protector. He has bravely carried a load of emotional burdens, not just mine, and I do my best to make it up to him now, with quiet and with walks. I listen closely for his heart, and savor the sounds of his sleep, his feet running in place, surely chasing the frisbee of his dreams. Usually I stay in the moment, but sometimes, like today, I inadvertently visit the future when he is no longer here.