Half Moon is barking (again). His barks once conveyed lively commentary on our daily adventures, a way of expressing his opinions on the goings-on around him. Lately, though, his barks carry a plaintive, more questioning tone—a signal that he’s experiencing something different.
His movement choices have changed as well. Once a confident traveler across his carpet runner highway, Half Moon now stops short and refuses to merge at the on-ramp. If his enthusiasm for a meal carries him onto this highway, he hesitates once he realizes his mistake, loses his momentum, and becomes stranded. As the others race by, he sits with rear legs extended in front of him, yelping in a combination of fear and frustration until I scoop him up and tuck him under my arm for the ride to the food bowl.
A recent visit to the vet provided some clarity on these changes: Half Moon’s thoracic spine—from the base of his neck to the end of his ribcage—is painful. He was born with 14 thoracic vertebrae instead of 13, making the space between the vertebrae even smaller, compressing the discs, and potentially causing a few to bulge toward his spine.
To make matters worse, for more than eight years, this section of his spine has borne the full weight of his body, working alongside his exceptionally strong front limbs to propel him forward when he’s out of his cart. His chest, upper back, and forelimbs have always been a source of strength; you can even see his well-defined bicep muscles, a rare sight in most dogs.
Yet, his body’s ability to compensate for years of extra effort has limits. Eight years of relying on his front limbs and upper back to shoulder tasks normally distributed throughout his body is now taking its toll. My rational self sees these changes as a natural progression—a reminder that every living being, no matter how strong, will succumb to compensatory movement patterns. My motherly self is crushed. I knew it was coming, but it’s never easy to recognize the change for what it is: his body is breaking down.
I have a decision to make: How will I react to these changes? There’s a quiet power in the brief moment between recognition and response—a pause that holds the space for thoughtful care. When Half Moon refuses to scuttle onto that highway, it isn’t a moment of defeat; it’s a gentle invitation for me to recognize his fear and step in with care and understanding, to recognize the challenge and formulate a plan to address it. It is in this gap between his hesitant movement and my response that I find an opportunity for growth, both physically and emotionally.
There are times when these moments feel solitary, as I weigh each small decision on my own. Other times, reflecting with colleagues or fellow pet owners brings fresh insights and innovative strategies to help manage his discomfort. This space between stimulus and response is where real progress is made. This is where we nurture hope, resilience, and the enduring bond of trust with our dogs. Don’t miss this precious moment.
