Part 6 — “Signs of Slowing”
Chance began to stumble more.
Not every day. Not all at once. But it was there, like the soft edge of a cloud darkening before a storm—not quite threatening, but impossible to ignore.
One morning, Penny watched him rise from his bed with a sound more grunt than growl. His back legs trembled, toes splayed too wide for balance. When he turned to walk toward her, his left paw dragged slightly on the rug, catching like Velcro.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispered, crouching low. “Take your time.”
He did. Always had. But now… now it felt different.
Slower than slow.
Slower than memory.
Penny told her mom that night.
“I think Chance is getting old.”
Her mom paused, halfway through folding a clean towel. “He is old, sweetheart.”
“I know. But I mean… I think he’s starting to feel it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the TV flickering in the background, neither of them really watching.
“Did you notice he didn’t follow me down the hall this morning?” Penny asked. “He always does.”
Her mom set the towel aside. “I noticed.”
“I think we should tell Dr. Moreno.”
“I already called,” her mother said gently. “Just to check in.”
The vet’s office was quiet that Tuesday. No barking, no ringing phones. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the tap-tap of a receptionist’s nails on a keyboard.
Dr. Moreno greeted Chance with a soft smile and a stethoscope already around her neck.
“Still limping with style, huh old boy?”
Chance wagged his tail once but didn’t rise from his spot on the cool tile.
Penny knelt beside him.
“Tell us the truth, okay?”
Dr. Moreno ran her hands gently down Chance’s spine. Listened to his heart. Watched his pupils. Checked the paw that dragged.
When she stood, her face had changed.
Softer. Sadder.
“He’s tired,” she said. “And there’s some nerve damage now. Probably spreading from his hips.”
Penny nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.
“Can we… can we help him?”
Dr. Moreno crouched again and rubbed the grizzled fur behind Chance’s ear.
“We can help him stay comfortable. There’s medicine for pain, and we’ll adjust his walks. But this path we’re on—it’s a gentle one. A slow goodbye.”
The words hit Penny low in the belly.
Like a door creaking open to a place she didn’t want to go yet.
That night, Penny wrote a new page in The Loop Book.
I think dogs know when we’re scared.
I think they stay until we’re a little less scared.
I think Chance is starting to teach me how to let go slowly.
I hate that lesson. But I’ll learn it. For him.
She pressed a dried dandelion into the page.
Closed the book gently.
Then lay down beside him, curling her small body around his large, tired one.
In the days that followed, Penny adjusted.
She no longer rushed her steps. She moved like Chance did—measured, deliberate. As if every motion should be honored.
The walks became shorter.
Instead of reaching the end of the block, they went only to the mailbox.
Then the birdbath.
Then just the front steps.
Neighbors began to notice.
Melinda came by with a blanket she’d knit herself—soft, woolen, with a patch of pawprints stitched in the corner.
“Every hero deserves a cape,” she said.
Ben from down the street brought peanut butter treats.
The little girl with the headphones from the library mailed a hand-drawn card: a picture of Penny and Chance under a tree, both of them smiling, with halos made of stars.
“I think people love him more than they realize,” Penny said.
“They love both of you,” her mom replied.
Then came the day Chance didn’t rise at all.
The sun had already poured through the blinds. The clock ticked past 9:11.
Still, he didn’t stir.
Penny sat beside him, her hand resting on his side, waiting for the familiar rhythm of breath.
It came. Slow. Shallow.
But it came.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispered. “If you need to stop walking, it’s okay.”
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Just stayed there.
One girl. One dog.
Two loops drawing to a still point.
That evening, she added one more page to The Loop Book.
He’s not gone. He’s just paused.
Like breath between words.
Like a lull in the wind.
The loop isn’t broken.
It’s waiting.