In the end, Clifford’s head bobbled up and down slightly as he walked. His face looked as though it had been dipped in powered sugar. His eyesight was so terrible that he often got lost — even inside our little townhouse. He would stand in front of a window or a wall, thinking it was the way outside. When I turned him in the right direction, he would stubbornly return to his original position.

In the end, he became increasingly impatient with me, punctuating his displeasure with sharp barks of command. Fix my lunch faster! Bark! Get me down off this couch! Bark! I need to go outside right now! Bark! Your supper? I say it’s my supper now! Bark!

In the end, his strength was fading. Clifford spent most of the day sleeping and could not seem to stand for more than a few minutes without sitting down to rest. I carried him everywhere I could, because he walked slowly, with a bit of a wobble. He rode in my arms like a sultan in a sedan chair, absolutely confident that he was receiving no more than his due.

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