A Dog’s Final Watch:

People love to joke about it.

• “Can’t even pee in peace!”
• “My dog follows me like a stalker.”
• “He’s always underfoot!”

As if it’s a flaw. A problem. An inconvenience.

But I’ve never once seen it that way.

I see it as sacred bond.

Because when a dog follows you everywhere—every room, every shift, every breath—that’s not clinginess.

That’s devotion.

That’s their way of saying:

“Wherever you go, I feel safe. You’re my person, and my loyalty will last forever.”

• I was raised with grandparents and parents who rescued and fostered dozens of dogs.
• I fostered dozens of dogs since age 18. I'm 60 now.
• I’ve taken in the broken, the aggressive, the ones other people gave up on.
• All rescues. All stories. All healing in their own time.

But Zeus—the boy currently stretched out snoring next to me at age 11—he’s different.

• He was a bait dog when I rescued him.
• Covered in scars.
• Used for training fighting dogs.
• Discarded.

He came into my life at one year old, with haunted eyes and a hunger for safety.

And from that day forward—he followed me.

• Bathroom.
• Kitchen.
• Office.
• Hallway.

Never trained. Never asked.

He just... showed up.

Zeus isn’t just my dog—he’s my soul shadow.

• Sure, I rescued him.
• But truth is, he rescued me more.

He’s the one who made me feel safe when no one else even noticed I wasn’t.

The one who curled against me through meltdowns and breakdowns—no judgment, no questions, just warmth.

The one who sensed what was wrong without a word, long before the humans in my life ever caught on.

He’s the one who found me in that place between giving up and holding on.

And he stayed by my side.

He showed up at my lowest points and gave me the only thing I needed:

a reason to keep breathing.

• I live with Asperger’s.
• With MS.
• With advanced osteoarthritis grinding through my hands and knees.
• I don’t cry for help.
• I don’t make noise when I’m overwhelmed.
• I just keep working—pushing forward, functioning, surviving in silence.

And Zeus?

He knows. Instantly.

• Before I flinch.
• Before I sigh.

Before I even realize that something’s off within myself—he’s already there.

• Head in my lap.
• Body against mine like a weighted blanket wrapped in muscle and memory.
• No therapy vest.
• No command.
• No cue word.

We just have the most unshakable connection I’ve ever known.

One heart tuned into the other.

So when people complain about their dog following them around, I get it.

But I also don’t.

Because one day… the velcro will wear out.

• They’ll stop trailing behind you from room to room.
• They’ll stay in their bed.
• They’ll sleep longer.
• They’ll stop rising when you do—not because they stopped loving you, but because their body just can’t do it anymore.

Then...

• The hair around their face will turn gray.
• Little skin tags and odd growths will show up out of nowhere.
• Their joints will stiffen.
• Their legs will hesitate.
• They’ll stop jumping on the bed.
• They’ll stop running to the door when you get home—and start walking instead.

Because they still love you.

They still want to greet you.

• Even when their body aches.
• Even when it takes everything they’ve got just to rise to their feet.

They’ll come anyway—slowly, wobbling, determined.

Because you’re worth the effort.

And they’ll slow down—quietly, gradually, yet somehow… all at once.

And when they finally stop following you,

you’ll wish more than anything that they still could.

So do they.

• Then they’ll stop eating.
• They’ll stop rising at all.
• No more following.
• No more greeting.
• Just stillness.

And that’s when you know—it’s time.

As their final breath inches closer,

you’ll start asking yourself questions you were never ready to answer.

• Did I pet them enough?
• Did I spend enough time with them?
• Did I pause long enough to thank them—and scratch that perfect spot behind the ear?

But dogs don’t keep score like we do.

They don’t count missed moments.

They remember every single touch.

Every “good dog.”

Every belly rub.

Every time you looked into their eyes like they were your whole world—

because to them, you were theirs.

It was never just, “Wherever you go, I feel safe.”

It was also, “Wherever you go, I’ll make sure you are safe, too.”

That’s why my dog sleeps with his butt facing my face.

Not because he’s rude—

but because he’s watching the door.

He’s running silent security while my guard is down.

He’s guarding the perimeter of my room.

And when he chooses not to sleep on the bed, he curls up by the door like a soldier—the last line of defense between me and the world.

That’s not clinginess.

That’s duty.

And if you’re wondering whether you did enough?

Please don’t.

Because they never doubted you.

Not for a second.

So let me just say it plainly:

• A velcro dog is not a burden.
• It’s a blessing.
• It’s not a behavior problem.
• It’s a love language.

One pawstep and belly rub at a time.

Zeus and I have shared 11 years together.

A lifetime, really.

• Of belly rubs and silent comfort.
• Of shared breath and unspoken understanding.

I know the end is near.

And writing this brought an ocean of tears I wasn’t ready for.

He’s lying beside me right now, snoring softly.

One day soon, he won’t be.

• But I’ll be there—right by his side.

Just like he was for me all these years.

• I’ll be holding his head in my arms as he takes his last breath.

Because I know, without a doubt, he would be there for mine.

• I’ll witness his eyes slowly close for the last time.
• I’ll experience that final moment when my life shifts forever.

And even though I know that will be the most painful day of my life—

I wouldn’t miss the chance to thank him for his love, his loyalty, his service... and tell him how much he means to me, one last time.