09/04/2026
Lately, the rhythm of my days with Xena has shifted into something much quieter and, if I’m honest, much heavier. The long walks have been replaced by fortnightly vet visits and a pill-sorting routine that feels like a second job. It’s a labour of love, but it’s a constant, physical reminder that her body is changing in ways I simply can’t fix.
The hardest part isn’t the schedule or the medication, though—it’s the hyper-vigilance. My heart skips a beat every time I hear her paws stumble on the floor, or when she takes just a second too long to find her footing. It’s that quiet, nagging anxiety that we might be closer to the end of the road than I’ll ever be ready for, turning every little trip or tired moment into a worry.
There’s a specific kind of grief that comes with watching a soul you love grow old. You want to freeze time, yet you’re so grateful for every slow, grey-muzzled day you get.
Despite the worry and the “what-ifs,” there’s a profound sweetness in this stage. Xena leans on me a little more now, both literally and figuratively, and the bond feels deeper than it ever did in her younger years. It’s stripped back and honest. We’re just taking it one slow step at a time, making sure she knows she’s the centre of my world, for however long that road continues.
Thinking of everyone else out there navigating these silver years. It’s a tough path to walk, but I wouldn’t trade the view from her side for anything. 🤍
