He's old, my old friend.
He pisses where he wants because he can't make it to the toilet.
He bumps into things, people and flower pots because he can't see them.
Sometimes he bites my fingers with his one teeth because he thinks it's food.
He stumbles and crumbles to the ground: once such a proud man, now we carry him up the stairs.
He stands in everyone's way and he doesn't care and we smile at it.
He's our faithful dog, my old friend, I saw him grow up, he lived a more exciting life than many men, now he's old, slowly decaying.
I hope he dies soon, in sleep, before he can experience too much pain and confusion of a demented brain.
It will get us all in the end. Death doesn't discriminate.