Ode To Jelly

Claire had never known the house without the sound of Jelly’s nails tapping the hardwood floor. It was like the metronome of her life—steady, patient, always returning. For ten years, he had been more than a dog. He was a shadow stitched to her heel, a silent witness to the jagged rhythm of her days. When the world felt too sharp, too fast, too much, Jelly was there—mountain-strong and river-quiet.

Now, the silence lingered longer in the mornings.

She lay in bed, her eyes closed, feigning sleep. There was no use checking the time anymore. Her internal clock was broken, set to the irregular rhythm of dread and guilt. Slowly, she turned her head to look down at the foot of the bed.

Jelly was there, as he always was. Sometimes on the bed, sometimes not. This morning, he was sprawled on the floor, his giant body curled uncomfortably, one leg twitching slightly as if he were dreaming. His thick coat, once a deep slate gray, had faded to ash, peppered with white. His breaths came deep and slow, a soft hum through the room.

She didn’t want to wake him—not when the twitching meant he was running again, like he used to, and she couldn’t bear to remind him that he couldn’t do that anymore.

She reached out over the edge of the bed and ran her fingers along his back softly.

“Good morning, buddy. I love you.”

He didn’t stir. Just kept breathing. Her hand rested on his ribs, and she waited.

And then, quietly, the thought came.

Maybe today.

Maybe today would be the morning she wouldn’t have to help him up. Wouldn’t have to watch his legs tremble as he struggled to stand. Wouldn’t have to pretend she wasn’t exhausted from lifting, guiding, catching. Wouldn’t have to carry the quiet heartbreak of watching the only living being who truly understood her disintegrate, piece by piece.

Maybe today he just… wouldn’t wake up.

Her chest burned with the betrayal of it. She withdrew her hand like she’d touched a flame, curling her fingers into her palm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”

But she had.

And that was the part that haunted her more than anything else.

She meant it every morning.

The secret lived in her like a second heartbeat. It pulsed behind every word of affection, every treat, every kiss she pressed to his velvety ears. Please don’t make me do this again. Please don’t make me watch you fall apart.

Jelly stretched, groaning as his joints popped like branches underfoot. He lifted his head and blinked at her, eyes clouded with age but still sharp. She smiled—too big, too quick, trying to erase whatever he might have seen in her face before the mask went on.

“Time for breakfast?”

His ears twitched. He made no move to rise.

She got out of bed slowly, pulling on a hoodie. Her bones felt as tired as his lately. When she returned from the kitchen with his bowl, she found him exactly where she left him. Not asleep. Just still.

“Come on, big guy. You’ve got to get up.”

He stared at her. Then, with effort, rolled onto his belly, legs sprawling like fallen scaffolding. His back legs trembled, one slipping sideways as he tried to push up. She reached down, arms under his chest and belly, and lifted. It was an act of leverage, not strength—physics applied to heartbreak.

He stood, barely. She held onto his harness until she was sure he wouldn’t fall.

You used to run.

She could see it in her mind: Jelly tearing through the woods and down the greenway behind their neighborhood, his body a blur of strength and joy. The kids had chased after him, laughing and breathless, their voices echoing through the trees. He’d dart ahead, then pause to let them catch up, tail high, eyes gleaming, utterly alive. Those were the days when nothing seemed able to touch him—when he ran like the world belonged to him and he knew it.

He ate, slow but determined. Then he stood by the door, looking at her expectantly. His bathroom routine had become a dance of calculation. How many steps? What terrain? Could he make it back up the porch stairs?

Claire clipped his leash and opened the door. The wind was cold against her face. Jelly hesitated, sniffed the air, then lumbered forward.

“Slow and steady, buddy.”

They made it to the patch of grass near the fence. She watched him do his business, then waited while he turned awkwardly to find his footing. One paw slipped. He caught himself. But only barely.

How many more times?

That night, after he was asleep again, Claire sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. The secret pressed against her ribcage like something living.

She remembered Peanut.

Fierce, stubborn Peanut, who had turned 16 just a year before Jelly began to slow down.

Tiny, fragile Peanut—barely six pounds, with a failing spine and tired eyes. Claire had lifted her like a doll, carried her from bed to couch to lawn and back again. Even at her worst, Peanut had been portable. Manageable. It hadn’t made it easier emotionally, but physically, it had been possible.

But Jelly was ninety pounds of muscle and fur and pride. He knew when she was helping too much. He fought her help sometimes, embarrassed by his body’s betrayal.

And more than once, Claire had thought—I won’t be able to do this. Not all the way. Not to the end.

But no one could know that. No one would understand. They’d tell her to try hydrotherapy, new medications, joint supplements, acupuncture. They’d talk about doggy wheelchairs and slings and special diets. They didn’t understand what it was to carry this grief daily—to love a soul so deeply that every small decline felt like a death.

So she said nothing.

When friends asked how Jelly was, she smiled. “Getting older. Slowing down.”

When her sister suggested a ramp for the porch, Claire nodded. “Good idea.”

When the vet offered a new arthritis medication, she said she’d think about it. Then she drove home in silence, her eyes stinging.

And each morning, the same ritual.

Hand on his side. Whispered hello. The insistent I Love You. The sharp, quiet thought—Maybe today…

And then the guilt. Always the guilt.

Jelly shifted in his sleep on the edge of the bed, letting out a soft, breathy bark. Claire watched him. His legs moved slightly, as if chasing something in a dream. The corners of her mouth twitched upward.

Maybe he was back running through the woods, the kids laughing behind him.

Maybe he remembered it too.