Josie the Cockapoo’s worn pads click across the kitchen floor. Fifteen years old. My husband and I display a photo of her as a puppy—see photo above—and often comment on how quickly the years have gone. Bare patches show where she’s scratched herself raw from persistent allergies. Still, when I ask if she wants a jerky treat, her tail wags with unrestrained joy. She’s my reminder to be thankful for the small pleasures life still offers.

Many years ago, when I fell off a horse while jumping over barrels, my doctor answered my questions about my future in tennis—another love of mine. He advised me to do what I loved for as long as I could, and when I could no longer do them, adapt and do the next best thing. 

That advice popped into my head the other day when I had to lift Josie into the car for her walk. Josie can’t run and chase squirrels anymore, but she still watches them with intense focus, her tail flicking with excitement. She can’t race alongside my husband’s bike, but she finds comfort curled on his lap, snuggled close as he reads the paper. Her world has grown smaller, but her joy hasn’t. She looks at me expectantly, asking for a walk.

I bend down to her level, slip her sweater over her head, and gently guide first one leg, then the other through the sleeves. She stands patiently, trusting. I know her joints ache, but smells are waiting to be discovered. When I open the door, she steps forward with determination—ears perked, nose twitching—ready for adventure.

This holiday season, we’ll gather with family who, like Josie, are showing their own signs of wear. Grandpa no longer tosses the football with the grandkids. Grandma doesn’t surprise the family by standing on her head anymore—yes, my mom used to do that! But Grandpa might still insist on carving the turkey, and Grandma might still lead the after-dinner walk. The laughter will sound the same even if the pace is slower. Like Josie, instead of lamenting what’s lost, we can celebrate what remains.

Josie moves slowly down the sidewalk, and I notice her limp is worse today. Still, she heads straight for the mailbox so she can sniff around it. Other dogs have left their messages, and she doesn’t want to miss a single one. 

Watching her, I realize that we humans aren’t so different. During the holidays, we’ll delight in checking in with one another, hearing the latest family stories. But we’ll also notice changes—who’s moving slower, who repeats the same story, who’s missing from the table this year.

Josie tugs at the leash. She’s on a mission. I let her lead, her tail wagging with excitement. As we walk, I think about the things I once did—running a half-marathon, sparring in karate, tackling wilderness trails with a heavy pack and stronger knees. Those days are behind me, but new joys have taken their place: a fierce game of Capture the Flag with the grandkids, a lively double match on the tennis court, a moonlit hike through quiet woods. I’ve traded speed for savoring what’s right in front of me—and that feels like a good exchange.

Josie leads me to the backyard water garden, one of her favorite stops. She lowers her head and drinks deeply from the cool water. I stand beside her, feeling the chill in the air, watching her reflection ripple across the surface. I’m grateful for her steady companionship and quiet example. Josie may limp and scratch, but she still finds joy in what remains—one sip, one wag, one day at a time.