What makes me happy now: my very old dog

Lately I've been thinking about Frank and if he's happy.

Frank is my dog. I got him from a pug sanctuary in 2014. They told me he had the eyes of a two-year-old, but the teeth of an eight-year-old: either he just passed the age. qualifying stage of puppies, being on the verge of being a senior. Our vet said Frank looked more like eight years old – two was a story the rescue center was peddling to make an older dog more appealing. Frank is now almost 17, which puts him at the end of his natural life, although he insists he will live forever. It's a joke my partner and I play for him - putting words in his mouth - in which Frank comically confused the idea of ​​a "forever home" with the idea that he will live "for always".

Lately, however, things have been bad with Frank. He has had an intermittent cough for two years. He has inoperable growths in his spine - X-rays show one of them is shaped like Italy. He takes painkiller for it, and he seems fine, even though he's slightly bent. Frank has balance issues, caused by a problem with his inner ear. The way Frank has approached this situation is to prick up his ears, like a French bulldog. His depth perception is poor – sometimes when I give him a treat he bites me. No malice, he just thinks my hand is the treat. He finds me delicious. Frank literally started "biting the hand that feeds him".

During a recent visit to the vet, my partner and I listed Frank's ailments. "Does he still want to be with you?" asked the vet. "Does he still eat well?" Sleep well? Walk?" Yes to all. After listening carefully, our wonderful vet offered the following diagnosis: "What you have is a good pug." Nothing Frank has is fatal. He's old That's all. And old is not a disease. Old is old.

There are several dogs, we had another wonderful vet, who said one day that the last five years of a dog's life could be the best five years if you let them. I think he meant that there were pleasures in having older dogs. Although Frank slower and can't jump as high, he makes up for that by being experienced and easy going Frank enjoys posing for pictures, wearing sweaters, eating a good meal, watching a long movie, look deep into your eyes.

Minus the penchant for posing for photos, we're not that different. think about what makes me happy, it's all terribly superficial. It's not that I think happiness should be a superficial emotion, and yet for me, it is. It passes quickly and leaves little impression. It's all the material comforts: a vase of buttercups, the well-organized house, the coat that fits perfectly, my two dogs stacked on top of each other. Sometimes I notice that happiness is everywhere, all the time, and then I am overwhelmed with abundance and fortune in my life. I'm so grateful I want to cry. I think Frank is like that too.

As Frank got older, we made accommodations for him. Raised bowls so he can eat more easily. The precise amount of drug that won't make him anxious. New sheets for his bed. I take him down and hoist him onto the couch. My partner spends long periods of time in the yard, waiting for Frank to find the right moment to groom himself, holding him up if he loses his balance.

Yes those things in exchange for the years of service Frank has given us. Frank sat by my side during the writing of three novels. Who has been closer to me - literally - than Frank? Who has been a more constant presence and source of support?

When my parents visited me over the holidays, my mother noticed that Frank was getting older and I told him says she didn't have to worry because Frank will live forever. My mother refused to play along, saying I was in denial. But who isn't? To live and love in this world is sometimes to forget that everything is mortal. My mom is 72, and I know that number and what it suggests, and I don't think about it any more than I absolutely have to.

But back to Frank! I did not name him. Frank was the name given to him by the jogger who found him abandoned in a park. Frank loves the sound of his own name almost as much as he loves food. The first year I got it, I must have said it or sung it 100,000 times. I did it for no other reason than because it made him happy.

I told Frank I was writing this essay, which he already knew, because everything I write, I write with him by my side. I asked him what he thought was happiness. He thinks for a long time before answering. He tells me that to be happy is to be warm, to be...