I saw them last night, an older man walking his dog. The dog’s hind legs were collapsing with each step, as he pushed himself along with whatever energy his front half could still give him. The guy moved as slow as the grayed mixed-breed, stopping whenever stopping was the answer.

I wanted to roll down the car window and tell him that I knew. I knew those last walks. I knew the small breaths of remembering and the bigger ones of heartbreak. I knew the decision.

Years ago, we did a For The Sender show at the La Paloma Theatre. The loss of my first Labrador was the personal cornerstone in the multimedia experience of film, songs, and stories. And while I heard a lot of compliments after the standing ovation, I only remember the complaint now. We were signing books in the back of the theater, and as he walked out, some guy with a hipster mustache and stupid felt hat muttered, “But it’s just a dog.”

To me, a single 40 year-old introvert with no kids, who’d traditionally run low on quality human connections anyway, she wasn’t just a dog. I drove home after the show thinking that sometimes there are only two kinds of people in the world.

And last night, I could see what kind this older man was.

Which is why I didn’t roll down the car window.

He already knew.