Today I saw an old man walking an old dog.
The dog was a golden retriever, his long coat still clean and glossy, but his head hung low and his mouth hung open and his eyes had more of a droop than his heavy, plodding paws. The dog wasn't walking fast, but he was still at the end of his leash because the man was walking even slower.
The man's head hung to his right shoulder. Above his pale grey pants with the crisply-ironed crease falling out and his pale blue shirt, he wore an imploring look and a pout.
Combined, I think they were averaging about a kilometre an hour, but still the man held the leash as if the dog was pulling him along.
Every now and then the dog would pause, laboriously cock his leg, and fail to produce enough scent to trouble even the most assiduous of his neighbourhood rivals. The man would suffer through this ritual with a mute roll of his eyes.
I wonder how long they've known each other? Long enough to accept that even the things they loathe about each other make them perfect for each other.