Old age swaddled him like a heavy garment. I watched as without moving he reacted to the sounds and sights of things goings on around him.

I imagined him thinking: “Did I hear something?” Pause. “Is something being required of me?” Pause. “Do I have to get up?” Long pause. “Nah, probably not.”

Less social but more vulnerable, he was susceptible to respiratory disease, heart problems, incontinence and cancer. He passed gas, snored, had tremors, arthritis, skin problems, lumps and bumps, and he needed a tush-push to climb stairs.

Still, the memory of him makes me smile.

Once he was a fluffy, funny, roll-about puppy. In those years, he didn’t have to be called. I didn’t have to ring bells or clap my hands to get his attention. A goofy and endearing dog, he followed me from the couch to the sink, from the door to the table and back again with what seems like a measured optimism for whatever might happen.

And then he was almost 16 years old (90-something in human years). He waddled along on knurly legs, rolling from side to side in discrete steps and stop-action motion. He was a clumsy, oddly proportioned, sweet natured mix of cocker spaniel and poodle who didn’t hear or see well and who had to be coaxed to go outside when it’s raining.

But there was grace in the simple here and now reality of his life. He had become existential, my advance guard, a practical demonstration of old, delivered with daily lessons in tenderness.

Our interactions were accompanied with patience and the dignity old age bestows. He declined with nonchalance. Urgency had no place in his life and he would not be rushed. He had his own rather mysterious reasons for doing what he did, and he knew I would wait while he figured out what they were.

What he needed and wanted — all modest aspirations — were provoked by his learned trust that I would be there to refill his water dish when he gave it a solid nudge against the wall.

I don’t believe old dogs have regrets or collect a list of used-tos, such as retrieving sticks and balls, seeking old tissues that he then chewed into shreds. So he decided to let someone else chase birds, roll over on demand and catch treats in mid-air. I doubted he had any more reverence for youth than he did for old age, and it was his acceptance that made his life seem very uncomplicated.

A buff-colored, shaggy pillow, he spent most days sleeping in a shaft of sunlight, his paws tucked under his chin so neatly it was hard to tell head from tail. And when I didn’t hear his soft wheeze, I stopped what I was doing to stare at him the way I used to stare at my sleeping son until I was mollified by the steady rise and rhythmic fall of each breath.

And in the course of each week, I routinely found myself holding his hair-scrambled face between my hands as I stared into his cloudy eyes to telepathically tell him again that he was loved, and thank him for his company and the affection he gently brought to my life.

CK Wolfson is a regular contributor to the Gazette.