Rufus was an old boy, it was indisputable. He'd been around since Jack’s father John first built Beecher's Hope, and that was several years ago by now. It didn't help that he'd been taken in as a grown dog and not a puppy.

His age was showing, that was for sure. His fur was greying, and he no longer bounded like he used to — instead having more of a slow lope, tail wagging lazily instead of quickly whenever Jack or yourself would enter the room.

It was hard on Jack. Such was hard to deny as he sat there on the bed, head in one hand while the other was buried in the pooch’s shaggy fur in the (admittedly rather common) occasion of Rufus being allowed on the sheets.

“I don't want him to go.” Jack's voice was rather quiet, the sound of it making Rufus’ tail wriggle.