A reenactment of the chipmunk massacre, this time with a stuffed toy.

We adopted Mason when he was eleven months old; a fully-grown lab and Weimaraner mix, he supposedly chewed up a car seat in his former home before ending up in ours. I felt offended on behalf of him, a puppy who was simply following his nose to suss out errant granola bar crumbs.

When his foster rescue mom brought him over, we let him out in the backyard, and he immediately caught a chipmunk. Our other dog, Jessie, was blind and so old, the chipmunks could’ve run up and down her spine and she wouldn’t have minded.

Confused, Mason looked at us, limp rodent hanging from his mouth. What now? “Let it go, Mason,” his foster mom yelled, and he did. The wounded critter somehow slithered under the fence, but the warning shot had been fired: There’s a new sheriff in town.

A blend of happy-go-lucky chocolate lab and neurotic Weimaraner, Mason spent the first decade of his life in motion, usually in pursuit of a tennis ball flung off our lime green Chukit!. At the dog park, he had no interest in sniffing the butts of other canines; his singular, impressive focus was fetching a slobbery ball coated in gravel and dropping it at my feet. Again. And again. And again.

Our backyard wasn’t big enough to wear him out, so the kids and I invented an elaborate game called Chuckit to Racket to Teeth: a tennis ball launched from the Chuckit! to a tennis racket, then ideally landing right in Mason’s mouth. The success rate was less than 10%, but when we pulled it off, it was magic.

These days, Mason is 13.5 years old (95ish in human years?), and everything about him has slowed down. His back legs have lost their strength, and watching him struggle to stand makes my own body ache. He doesn’t really walk anymore—it’s more of a lurching teeter. Still, he rallies when it counts: whenever he hears the vegetable drawer slide open (baby carrots are his favorite) or the crack of a banana peel (a close second), he’s there.

This morning, he had a seizure: a big one, complete with loss of his bowels and eyes rolling around. I’ve had plenty of dog emergencies, but never dealt with a seizure before. I wasn’t home for it, but if you’ve ever watched a pet age, you know how it breaks your heart wide open.

Mason is how I mark my days. At 5:45 a.m., he’s ready for breakfast—even though the dog diner doesn’t open until 7. While I wait for my tea water to boil, he lets me bury my face in his furry neck. Then I tell him, about 17 times, how handsome he is before asking him what’s on his Google Calendar for the day. (Yes, my daily question drives my kids nuts. But I can’t stop myself.)

Turns out, the main items on his schedule never change: eat, nap, go outside, offer joy and unconditional love to anyone who needs it.

He’s my longest-running and most loyal coworker—and the canine with the most cameos in AMR videos. He spends most of his day beside me in my office. His dinner arrives around 3:30, and at our dinner a few hours later, Grant eats with one hand and pets Mason with the other. Then it’s one treat, and one medication I call Super Advil. By 8:15, he’s ready for his last pee and bedtime. So am I. He pants as he lumbers up the stairs, and I’m not far behind.

This morning, when I got home, Mason was as spry as a 95-year-old human might be after a seizure—alert but weary. He was ready for the next item on his calendar: a long nap. But he smelled a bit ripe, so I set up for an outdoor bath: hose, towels, dog shampoo and conditioner.

I wet him down and gently lathered him up, my hands tracing the hard lumps and soft bumps that have multiplied with age. Looking into his cloudy eyes, I reminded him—again—how good and handsome he is. A quick search for “seizure in 13-year-old dog” turned up what I already feared: it could mean nothing, or it could mean the end. He might have two more weeks, or two more years. Either way, the goodbye will ruin me.

I skipped washing his head—his day had already been hard enough—but I spent extra time on his back legs, giving them a gentle massage and thorough rinse.

I wanted to be fast—he hates cold water and his toothpick legs were shaking—but I also wanted to slow it all down. To let him feel how much he is loved. To show him that we will care for him for as long as it makes sense. That we don’t expect him to live forever.

Like most dogs, he lives only in the present. The bath? Already a distant memory. Probably the seizure too. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning, hopeful that breakfast might arrive early. After all, it’s what’s on his Google Calendar.