Zorro is Old

When I was 11 years old, my family adopted a pound puppy. He was stinky and wiggly and very cute. I named him Zorro after watching black and white reruns of the show at midnight on the Disney Channel.

He was everything a good dog should be. He ran around the backyard like a fiend. He did tricks for treats. His never-ending quest for people food drove him to move furniture to access kitchen counters with tempting cupcakes. He had a little boyfriend dog that lived down the street, and if he ever got out, that's where he'd end up.

I'm nearly 28 now and he's still plugging along. I've been to college, a year in Asia, left a few jobs, got married and now have my own company. And he's always been there, ever since the day my mom brought him home from the pound. With his schnauzer face and probably poodle build. His little white feet and his thinning gray hair that was once jet black.

Now my husband and I dog sit when my parents go out of town and he sleeps all day near me, by my computer. I take him to the backyard to do his business and his legs give out from underneath him. He flinches from the sun and looks generally confused.

Zorro is old and it makes me sad.