Instead, Walter walks across an open, level yard.
He stops to sniff.
Turns slowly.
Then continues.
When he becomes tired, there is an accessible resting place nearby.
No plastic wall.
No trapped moment.
No trembling attempt to lift arthritic legs higher than they comfortably go.
Walter simply lies down.
That would be a better afternoon.
Not because his cognitive condition has disappeared.
Because his environment finally stopped asking him questions he can no longer reliably answer.
For Now, the Image Is Difficult to Forget
Walter walks slowly toward the kiddie pool.
One front leg crosses the rim.
Then the other.
His hind legs follow.
He is inside.
Walter stops.
The pool is empty.
The yard is directly around him.
Freedom is only inches away.
But Walter stands completely still.
Eventually, he turns.
One short leg rises.
It catches against the rim.
Walter lowers it.
He tries again.
His arthritic hindquarters tremble as he shifts his weight.
The leg does not clear.
Walter pauses.
Then the old dog gives up.
His chest lowers onto the plastic.
His long body follows.
Finally, he rests his chin on the edge of the pool and looks out at the same yard he was walking through moments earlier.
Walter is not separated from it by a fence.
There is no locked gate.
Only a few inches of plastic stand between him and the grass.
For an 11-year-old dog whose joints are failing and whose mind sometimes seems to lose its place, those few inches have become enough.
And that is the hardest part of watching Walter grow old:
he can still find his way into the little pool—but some days, his body and his mind can no longer work out how to bring him back out again.