Bella used to run like the wind.
Back when she was a pup, people would stop and stare at the blur of golden fur tearing across the dog park. She was fast — not just greyhound fast, but joyful fast. The kind of running that made kids laugh and old men nod with quiet admiration.
And every time she reached the far fence and turned around, she’d bolt straight back to me like I was the finish line.
But time… has its way.
She’s twelve now. The grey on her muzzle has outpaced the gold. Her hips creak, her eyes cloud a little when the light hits just right. And last week, for the first time ever, Bella didn’t run.
We got to her favorite spot. I unclipped the leash. She looked out over the field… and just stood there.
No sprint. No tail-up charge.
Just a slow walk to a shaded patch of grass, where she laid down, sighed, and watched the world go by.
I sat beside her, heart heavier than I expected.
It hit me: she wasn’t here to play anymore. She was here to be. To smell the wind. To feel the grass under her paws.
And maybe, to remind me to do the same.
I pulled the foldable outdoor dog mat from my backpack — one of those padded, roll-up kinds we got last year for road trips. Laid it out. She shifted onto it like it was familiar. Like she remembered the days we shared sandwiches on hiking trails and napped beside lakes.
We stayed for over an hour. Saying nothing. Just… existing.
Now, every Saturday, we go to that field.
I bring the mat. She brings the calm.
And I’ve started noticing things I never did when we were busy running — birds nesting on the fence post, a tree that always leans to the east, the way Bella’s ears twitch even when she sleeps.
She might not run anymore. But she’s still teaching me how to live.