December of 2000– I was 14-years-old and a freshman in high school. 

One afternoon my parents came home from work and my mother was lamenting how her coworker had already sold all the chow chow puppies and we weren’t able to get one. I almost believed her until I noticed that her coat was moving and she started laughing. She opened up her coat and inside was a small black ball of fur. 

He was the meanest and smelliest little jerk I’d ever met, but he was so damn cute I fell in love with him anyway.

My mom came up with the name Baloo and it just worked.

When you get a dog for the first time you don’t really anticipate them getting old.

I mean you know it’s going to happen, but you’re too busy enjoying their puppyhood and their prime years that you think, my guy is going to be sturdy and strong forever.

Sadly that’s not the case. My Baloo is 12-years-old, he’ll be 13 in October, his muzzle is white and his hips aren’t what they used to be. I watch him struggle to get up and go get water or struggle to go down and up the stairs to go outside and it hurts me.

The past couple of days he’s been a little odd, he’s not barking as much as he usually does, he’s been a bit unsteady walking around and he’s been very lethargic.

I don’t like it.

Tomorrow we plan on taking him to the vet to see what’s wrong and what we need to do to ensure that this doggy lasts a long time yet, because I am in no way ready to let him go.

That’s my Baloo, what am I suppose to do without my crochety old man?

He is the King of Dogs.