One quirk of our move to a small town is that our mail no longer appears in a pile inside our front door. Now, scattered down the street, are what I call mail pods, clusters of mailboxes on poles. I get a daily email telling me if we are getting real mail. Weird that. Walking to the mail pod was my job alone until I needed to create a ritual for my little boy dog Zoom.

Zoom is responsible for two permanent injuries. I have arthritis in my right wrist from thousands of frisbee throws. The little guy, half Border Collie and half Whippet, was genetically designed to chase objects and snatch them out of the air. His powerful back legs easily launched him six feet into the air. Excited at a doorway, barking and whining, he could jump straight up and look me in the eyes. Sally took him for a long walk every morning and I played frisbee with him in the afternoon.

Each day, about 3 PM since I retired, he shoved my hands off my keyboard and demanded we go outside to play. Part of the ritual was him barking at me if I dawdled, then jumping up and down at the door. It was a highlight of both of our days. I loved to see his sighthound instinct make him violently shake the fabric frisbee when he caught it like the rabbit he was bred to hunt.

Time is cruel to athletes. The parts wear out. The difference with a dog is that they never complain. Every joyful instinct is the same.  Time can leave humans grumbling and complaining about losing a step and giving up much loved physical hobbies. Dogs merely adapt and never lose their joy. At about 10 years old, Zoom had clearly lost a step. He didn’t fly as high or demand endless throws. I called an earlier halt to our frisbee or ball sessions as I learned to read his fatigue. One day, after a couple of dozen tosses, Zoom snatched the disc from the air, shook it, then dropped it at his feet. He put his front paws on the toy and turned to stare at me. He was telling me he was done now.

Day after day, the same joy for him catching and me watching, but the number of throws got fewer and fewer. He’d stand on his toy, and I’d yell, “Are you done now?” Zoom would pick up the disc, chest out, tail wagging high; he would carry his frisbee to its home in the garage and drop it on the ground for me to put it away.

This summer, the number of throws dwindled to a handful. The vet said his once powerful hips were worn out and arthritic. The dramatic chase was now a series of bunny hops with his rear legs. Dogs will do things to please you, even when they are in pain. I had to create a new afternoon ritual for us. One day, when he demanded we go play, I said, “Let’s get the mail!” with excitement that mirrored his. He barked and whined at the door, and away we went down the block and across the street to the mailbox pod. The old boy now loved to sniff and mark as much as he loved to chase. “Let’s get the mail,” was his new happy phrase.

Long ago trained to never touch a street without permission, nor pay any attention to anyone but me, Zoom was mostly flawless off leash. But now, his hearing was going too. I could no longer control him with a click or a whistle. Fortunately, every verbal command was linked to a hand gesture, so now it was my job to keep his eyes on me. As always, it was my job to look for cars to keep him safe. One day a neighbor parked a trailer in front of the mailbox pod. Zoom was waiting at the curb, and I had to take a step out to look up the street for cars. He took my movement as ‘go now.’ A car was coming. I reached down to grab him, and he darted back under my feet, causing me to face plant on the street, badly injuring my knee. And that is the second injury Zoom gave me. My aching knee and sore wrist will always be there to remind me of the little boy.

We both adapted. Same time. Same joy. Same ritual. Only now, a leash to cross the street. Funny thing about our ritual is that there were many days I knew there was no mail to pick up. Still, I didn’t change our routine. Mail or no, he barked at me at the door, and we went to pick up the mail. I am not sure why, fidelity to the process maybe, but I opened the empty mailbox so he could see that I did my job too. I think it mattered to him.

Weeks into the new ritual, upon returning to the garage, Zoom didn’t go right to the hallway door. He walked to the shelves that held his frisbees, looked up at them, then back at me. I asked, “Really? Are you serious?” He was. I pulled down his favorite, a ratty disc with holes in it from his violent whips and shakes.

Like he always did, he backed in front of me, staring at the disc in my hand as I walked down the driveway to the front yard. Then, as we had done thousands of times, I said, “Go!”  He didn’t go very far, and my job was to gently float his toy into his earthbound mouth. I missed the first time, but he didn’t stand on it and brought it back. “Okay, if you insist. Go!” Shorter run, and he just missed it. He brought it back and dropped it at my feet.

I could see he had only one more throw in him. I knew this was our last chance for a perfect throw. “Go!” Shorter still. The frisbee fell perfectly into his mouth, and he gave it a shake. Then he did something he never did. He carried his toy to the door and wanted to go inside. I let him in, and he trotted proudly to find Sally. “I think he wants you to know he caught his friz,” I told her. The three of us celebrated together with whoops and hugs. He never chased his frisbee again, and it stayed on his bed where he sometimes used it as a pillow.

There was one last trip to get the mail before Zoom had to leave us. With all the same joy and commotion, he demanded that we go. There was no mail that day. We moved slowly, and I opened the box for him to see. Now, I understand I was creating a trap for myself by building the new mailbox ritual for Zoom and me. I hadn’t thought it through. There will still be mail to get. I take the short walk, sometimes in tears, using the same now unnecessary pattern. Down the street, stop at his favorite bushes, straight across the street to the boxes and straight back. Only now, I don’t go when I know there is no mail.