Leaps and Bounds

Tango was a force of nature, a blur of fur and muscle, leaping with a joy that seemed to defy gravity itself. He was athletic—strong, fast, and brimming with endurance. At my mother’s house, the trees tell his story: branches all trimmed to the same height, not by a landscaper, but by Tango’s relentless bounds. For hours, he’d spring up, snatching every limb within reach, tearing them down with the glee of a canine acrobat. Once, I swear on my life, he cleared me—5’9” and no small obstacle—in a single, breathtaking leap. That was Tango in his prime, a whirlwind of unstoppable energy.

Now, at 14, kidney disease has slowed him down. His legs, once pistons of power, can’t manage the stairs anymore. So, I carry him, up and down, his weight familiar in my arms. But when we reach the bedroom upstairs, Tango’s spirit sparks. He pushes off my chest with those paws, insisting he can still jump, still soar. I play along, giving him a gentle “throw”—my arms always there, cradling his weight, guiding him to a soft landing. For that fleeting moment, he’s young again, eyes alight with pure excitement. Maybe it’s the thrill of the jump, or maybe it’s the treat in my pocket he knows is coming. Either way, that look on his face—wild, joyful, alive—is everything. It’s Tango, forever leaping in his heart.