Before the summer heat broke, my wife and I made a decision that would have been unthinkable just a short while ago: we went for a hike without Wiley. He was the reason that I started hiking nearly every day in 2012, a big reason why Virginia and I met in the first place. Wiley is part of every decision I make—to the the degree where he’s become an inseparable part of my identity. But now, at almost 12, he’s an aging dog.
We didn’t take him hiking that day because it was over 90 degrees out, uncommonly hot here in the mountains of southwest Montana. And Wiley’s endurance has started to fade, even on cooler days. He’ll lay down in the shade and refuse to go farther, start lagging behind on uphills, and has even stopped beating up his little brother and sister when they stray off-trail.
The reason we’re hesitant to take Wiley on our hikes isn’t because he can’t or won’t keep up—and definitely not because he doesn’t want to come along. It’s more because we’re worried about him. He’ll slip and fall occasionally while climbing our hardwood stairs—something he now accomplishes at a walk rather than a run. And jumping into bed is a feat that he can now manage only with a running start. More than half of my “load ups” at the trucks are now met with Wiley’s sad eyes, which I know to mean he wants me to lift him into the bed.
At home, Wiley spends most of the day sleeping on the couch, laying in the yard, or relaxing on the dog beds we stacked together for maximum comfort. I find myself scratching his head to say goodbye as often as I’m leashing him up to take him with me.
Protection duties—once Wiley’s greatest source of joy—have largely been ceded to Teddy, our six-year-old Kangal. I can’t remember the last time he bit someone or something.
When Wiley swims—something he loves, but has never been any good at—I now keep a watchful eye on him, and drag him out of the water once he starts to show any signs of fatigue.
Wiley wasn’t my first dog by a long shot, but my first after leaving home for college. He was given to me by friends who figured a puppy might be just the thing to drag me out of depression after I lost a business I’d spent years building then, temporarily, the ability to walk following a motorcycle crash. I was so broke the first year that I had Wiley that I chose food for him over food for myself on more occasions than I’d like to count.
Writing that is enough to bring back some uncomfortable memories, but I don’t really think about those that much anymore. The house, the cars, and the security that seemed so unobtainable back then have come through work and time. That’s in large part thanks to the sense of purpose and confidence being forced to provide for Wiley gave me.
But our good times together far outweigh any struggles we faced. Wiley’s been to three countries, most states east of the Mississippi, summited 14,000-foot peaks, rafted rivers, and sailed in the Pacific Ocean and Sea of Cortez. He’s bitten bears, helped me fight off a home invasion back in Hollywood, and served as the best man at our wedding. He was better at those first two tasks than he was the last one, but did at least manage to lead a group howl session during the reception dinner.
And while he’s still healthier looking than many dogs half his age—thanks to cutting out ultra-processed food early in his life—we can still see Wiley aging. From his peak of fitness, where you could visibly see his muscles even through his dense brindle fur, he’s lost about ten pounds, and is now what one of my friends described as “old man skinny.” What used to be meat is now bone. He has a lipoma on his rib cage, and a growth on one eyelid that our vet describes as non-cancerous.
Most dogs with hybrid-vigor—a post-purebred description for a dog that won’t die from cancer at a young age—live 10 to 14 years or so. And while Wiley shows no signs of crossing the rainbow bridge anytime soon, even I have to admit that the end of our time together is now much closer than the beginning. Watching people on television, or friends in real life make end-of-life decisions about their dogs is starting to feel more and more uncomfortable. Selfishly, I’m hoping it’ll still be a feat of heroism involving a mountain lion or grizzly bear that takes him, but realistically I know it’ll probably have to be an injection in the comfort of our own home.
But that’s still hopefully at least a couple years away. My job in the meantime, I figure, is to create as many memories together as possible. Even as it’s harder and harder to bring him along, it becomes more important to put in the effort, or scale activities to Wiley’s ability. Airplane rides—trips where my dogs cannot tag along—feel less appealing. Visits to our cabin, trips to see friends within driving distance, and vacations to Mexico, where we bring the pack, have become easy to prioritize.
Or just hanging out at home, where Wiley likes nothing better than lying under our chairs while we eat dinner, sleeping on his bed next to ours while we sleep, or cuddling up to us on the couch watching a movie. None of that may sound quite as exciting as our old hikes, but we adapt. It turns out any time spent with Wiley, in a place he’s most comfortable, is time well spent.
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