The Voice of Aramis. Notes of a Dog.

Old age is not about the end. It is about clarity.

I'm nine. An old man in dog years. A wise man on the threshold in human years. But you know what I'll tell you? Old age isn't about what ends. It's about what's finally visible.

When you're young, you walk fast. You want to do everything: run, sniff, grab, get into the frame, bark just to bark. You walk next to him, but your ears are out to the side. You live large, but often absentmindedly.

And with age comes other rhythms. Slow. But precise. You don't lose interest. You lose the rush.

Now I don't run after every smell - I wait for the smell to come to me. I don't bark in vain - I watch. I don't rush into every game - but if the game is real, I'm in it with all my soul.

In old age, a dog becomes transparent. My people see when I am in pain, even if I am silent. And I see in them what they do not know about themselves. We are like old mirrors: a little dusty, but reflecting deeper than new ones.

I sleep longer. But not because I'm tired - because my dreams have become more important. In my dreams, I don't go back to the past - I travel towards the light. Sometimes I hear the footsteps of the cat we lost. Sometimes - just the wind. But it's warm.

I don't care about other people's grades. I don't try to be good. I just am. And that's enough.

You are afraid of old age. But maybe in vain. Because old age is when you finally become yourself. Without jumping. Without proof. Without racing. You do not fight for love - you know that you have it. You do not demand attention - you just sit next to. And you are the center.

I am Aramis. I am an old dog, but my eyes are clear. I have walked many paths. And each path led me not to another place, but deeper into myself.

Someday you'll understand: old age isn't about leaving. It's about coming home. Inside. To where you really are.

We leave without shouting. But we remain.

I do not guard. I am nearby. I do not serve. I simply live next to a person. The way only those who know how to love unconditionally can.

You call it devotion. I call it breathing.

When you love someone, you don't follow them around. You just show up when they need you most, even if they don't ask. You just know. The scent of their pain, the rhythm of their anxiety, the sound of their sleep. The word they didn't say is the one you hear most.

I am a dog. I can’t stop what’s coming. But I can be there when the storm hits. You don’t always notice it, but we are the first ones to sense when something is wrong with you. You think we are yawning or just lying down. But we are taking your pain so you can breathe a little easier. We don’t need you to thank us. We just do it because you are ours.

I know what pain is. It doesn’t just come in paws. Pain is when you lose someone and the house gets quieter. It’s when you hear footsteps that are no longer there. One of our cats died. We grieved together. I lay on the floor. My humans cried. I didn’t howl. I just stayed with them until they began to breathe normally again.

Forgiving is also an art. I can do it. I don’t keep it to myself. Neither separations nor mistakes. I just draw conclusions. And move on. Because life is not about holding on, but about letting go.

I know that someday I will leave. But I will not leave screaming. We dogs do not make scenes. At some point we just stop getting up from our favorite place. We look at you a little longer. A little more attentively. We want you to be close. But if you can’t, we will forgive. We know how much pain it will cause you. And so we try to leave quietly. So that you can live on.

But we don’t disappear. We remain in the house – in the smells, in the habits, in the doormat. We live in the morning glances, in your pauses, in the way you now breathe at night.

Because we weren't just dogs. We were part of you