Skottie is outside, barking his head off, and Trooper looks like he wants to go next. I ask him if he wants to go out, and his back legs splay out on the kitchen floor. Carefully, I pick him up from the linoleum, set him straight, and decide that the cellar stairs aren't the best idea.

I settle on the back deck. It too has stairs, but I don't think Trooper will risk those. Besides, a stern scolding is usually enough to stop him from bad behavior these days. He's not as willful as he used to be.

I open the sliding glass door and let him out onto the snow-covered deck. I hope that he only has to pee, otherwise it'll be time for a shovel and a trip across the yard. No matter. If he's comfortable, I'm happy.

Trooper mills around on the top of the deck for a few minutes, meandering from corner to corner. He has no interest in the stairs, nor, it seems, in doing his business at all. It's a beautiful day outside for the end of winter in New England, and I decide to put on my light fleece jacket, grab the leash and take Trooper for a walk. I had hoped to take him on a few walks as the weather got better, but there's snow in the forecast for the next couple of days, and we're seeing the vet on Tuesday.

Tuesday will be what it will be. This morning, the old man goes for a walk.

Trooper gets very excited when he sees the blue nylon leash come out of the closet. He prances in the way that says, "Walk! Walk!" as if he's never been outside the house before. I feel guilty; he hasn't been on a decent walk for far too long. Life gets in the way, and it's easier to let him out into the backyard. "Outside" has become a utilitarian concept when it comes to Trooper's days, and that's not the way it should be for any dog, no matter his age.

New smells are everywhere, even on the melting, barren ground as we make our way up the street along a familiar route. Years ago, Trooper would drag me where he wanted to go and come to a complete halt when I would just catch up to him. He now moves at a more leisurely pace, sniffing here and there; stopping at every tree and fencepost, but not marking his territory. He wants to know who has been by, but doesn't seem to be interested in claiming anything for his own. Perhaps he knows that others have that duty now. Perhaps he's just too tired.

As he walks in front of me, I notice that both his back paws are "knuckling," not springing back into place immediately after taking a step. Occasionally, he'll lose pace completely and use both back legs at once to propel himself along. It's the way he moves up stairs nowadays, but I haven't seen him walk on a flat surface like this before. Perhaps he wants to get where he needs to go quickly, and his body just can't do the calculus involved in left-right-left-right. Perhaps it's more comfortable this way, even with the twice-daily dose of Rimadyl we give him for arthritis. In any case, he's still obviously happy to be out on the town, away from the familiarity of the backyard and the house and the car trips to the vets.

We see the vet on Tuesday. She can tell us what's going on with his back paws. She can tell us what's best for him. But today is Saturday, and I put Tuesday out of my mind.

We turn a corner onto the street that connects us via an old wooden bridge to North Avenue. For the first time, Trooper pulls at the leash, but it is a weak tug, not the 120-pound driving force that was used by my brother Sean to drag him around the lake on Rollerblades. When I jerk the leash to slow Trooper down, he steps back and almost sits. The back legs aren't what they used to be.

We squeeze through the hole in the fence on the legally-unsafe bridge and start to cross. Trooper has once again settled into a comfortable stroll, and becomes interested in looking over the edge of the bridge as he always does. The first time I took him for a walk this way, a train passed under the bridge, and Trooper huddled close to me for a moment, startled at the noise, but then peered over the edge to see what was coming. He was three years old then, and I was 25. Now I can see 40 approaching more quickly than I'd like, and he can't see very much at all. His eyes have clouded over, and he relies more and more on sound and scent to get himself around. I wonder if they're heightened, or if he just makes due with what he still has.

We stop, and I look out across the tracks. No train is coming this time, which seems to disappoint my dog. The rumbling scares him, but I think it exhilarates him as well, much like a rollercoaster or a scary movie would do for a person. The bridge is a mystery. It could be a path from one side of the tracks to the other, or it could be a loud, vibrating, shaky area from which to see the top of a very large machine whiz by. Either way, it's a good place to stop and have a look.

Or two.

I hunch down to his level and look through the chain-link fence from his vantage point. It's not that much different than my own, though I can't see as far into the horizon as I can upright. Before the bridge was officially closed, Trooper would hop up on his hind legs and place his front paws on the railing, watching the train go by when he was brave enough. I sometimes would wonder if the engineer could see the two of us, man and dog, both standing at almost the same height; looking down upon him and his passengers.

Time was, I worried that Trooper would get it in his head to leap over the railing, but the chain link fence was added for safety years back, and even if there were no railing at all, I wouldn't worry one bit. I can nudge my stubborn puppy in any direction with a gentle tug on the leash, and he doesn't resist. So different from the endless hours of training we went through attempting to teach him to "heel" and sit when we stopped walking. I wish I could take Trooper on a run around the lake, but those days passed a long time ago. He's panting now, and we've only gone a couple of blocks. I sit down on the railing as a couple walk by with a toddler in a carriage.

"Big doggie!" says the woman.

"He's an old doggie," I say to her. They stop for a moment to pet Trooper on the head, the child's small hand popping out of the stroller to dig into my dog's thick, unruly fur. I pet him along his back and feel every rib, every vertabrae on his spine. He used to be all muscle, and now he feels as fragile as a bird.

The couple and their child say goodbye to the "big doggie" and I stand back up. I decide not to go any further, but to turn back and head for home. Trooper doesn't protest. His left paw drags along the ground as he walks, and I wonder if I've pushed him too far.

I notice that the leash has a good amount of slack on it. This never used to be the case; Trooper, being part husky, seemed to like the feeling of pulling someone or something along. I often imagined him at the head of a pack of sled dogs, racing towards some wintery finish line at top speed.

I let go of the leash and let it drop on the ground in front of me, just to see if he'll notice. He walks a few steps, then turns around with a look that says, "Well? Are you coming?"

I pick the leash up off the ground and we slowly walk back towards our street. I have to slow my pace to keep from getting ahead of him, but it's a nice day and I enjoy the sunshine and the cool breeze as we saunter up the sidewalk.

I'll have to call the vet and see if I can give him a half-dose of Rimadyl, I think, seeing that he's more than a little stiff from our brief jaunt. I can also confirm our appointment for Tuesday, when the vet will give Trooper the once-over and determine if he's slowing down but feeling okay, or if he moves the way he does because he's in pain. We know what we'll have to do if it's the latter.

Tuesday is an eternity from this crisp, bright winter morning, though. I'm just out on a walk with my dog.

Julia, Cassie and CJ are playing "hide and seek" with their grandfather. His legs aren't much better than the old man who is on the leash, and I watch the two of them limp along the sidewalk at essentially the same pace. The girls are hiding behind one of the bushes on my front lawn, and call out, "Find us, Gumbo!" defeating the purpose of the game. Their grandfather does his best acting, looking all around before settling on the bushes, tagging both Cassie and Julia. They sit still for him as he slowly approaches, instead of running away as they do with one another when they play hide and seek amongst themselves. The rules are different with grandfathers, as they are between a puppy and an old dog.

"Can I take your picture with Trooper?" I call out, and the kids line up in a row on the front walk. I hand Julia the leash, marveling at the fact that she can hold him in place without effort. Two years ago, he outweighed her. Now he's much lighter, and he doesn't have any interest in dragging the kids around like he did. He will pose for the camera, though, and I snap a few shots before the kids get bored.

CJ wants to know why Trooper is panting so much. "He's not used to going for walks anymore," I tell him.

"He's really old," says Julia, who, being eight years old, knows everything. "He's older than Zachary!" Zachary being the yardstick for old dogs. Unlike Trooper, Zach has become fat and loud in his old age. Skottie has grown deaf. I sometimes feel as if I live in a retirement home for canines.

I thank the kids for the picture and take the leash from Julia. They wave goodbye and I hear Cassie say to her sister, "We should tell Mom to come over and see Trooper." Susan was always his favorite; we called her his "girlfriend," because hers is the only face that Trooper will lick.

I promise myself that the next day she's home and I don't have anywhere to go, I'll bring him over to her house so he can get the attention he deserves.

Tonight I came home and Trooper was standing at the back door, waiting for me. He's been doing this for the past couple of months now. Before then, he didn't much care when I came or left; he liked his sleep, and if I wanted to interrupt that, I'd have to be the one to make the effort.

He follows me around the house as I put away my work things and get myself a drink from the fridge. I head upstairs to settle into bed, and he stands at the bottom, looking up at me. I decide to grab my computer off the nightstand, throw on some pajamas, and work from the comfy chair. Trooper is still standing at the bottom of the stairs as I step over Skottie (who hasn't woken up; it takes a bomb blast for him to hear anything) and walk back downstairs.

I go back into the kitchen and give him a couple of treats we reserve for the times we clean out Skottie's ears. A reward for good behavior that Trooper insists on getting as well, because he's the alpha dog. As always, he has to give the treats a good sniff before deciding to take them from my hand. One would think that after all this time, he'd know that I wouldn't ever hand him anything he wouldn't eat, but he has his ways, and it's much too late to try to teach him something new.

I boot up the computer, and Trooper settles at the end of the ottoman. I pull out the camera and get one shot of the two of us together. It's always good to have pictures of you and your friends together, and he's been my friend for over 11 years.

He's sleeping now, snoring loudly as he does when he lays on his left side. It's safe to go back upstairs and continue surfing the web from the comfort of my bed, but I decide to stay here for a little while longer; no TV music on, no DVD to watch. It's just the clock and the sound of my old friend sleeping.

Perhaps it will be better news than I think it will be on Tuesday.

But Tuesday is forever from now.