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A somewhat depressing thread.
While I've always lived with dogs, they were never mine; sister's dog, girlfriend's dog and wife's dog, but never my dog. 11 years ago I bought my wife a dog to replace one that had died several months previously. My wife had always had rescue dogs in the past, she really wanted a puppy this time. I prefer larger dogs so I bought her a Newfoundland puppy. My wife was busy with school at the time, so I took her to obedience school. 18 months of puppy school later, Picabo is my dog. While my wife is her second favorite person, she follows me everywhere. When I'm gone on a business trip, my wife saves a smelly unwashed Tshirt of mine for the dog to curl up with.
Picabo turns 11 on Christmas Eve, that's fairly elderly for a Newfie. She can't go on 20 mile hikes with me any more, 8 or so is her limit. Even then, I virtually have to carry her outside the next day, she is so stiff. She still bounces off the walls when she sees me put on hiking boots, but I know I have to pace the hike to her limits. I'm OK with that, I don't have the heart to leave her behind.
While old age sucks for all of us, it hurts to watch my constant hiking buddy struggle to do things that were easy a couple of years ago. She still has some living to do and she's every bit as stubborn as her owner. I believe she has another year or 2, but I'm really dreading the inevitable.
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