It’s been months since mud’s been stuck to his paws, longer since I’ve had to comb any burs or ticks from his thinning coat. I lift him, and the scale clicks before the needle settles on a number I can round off to the nearest pound, subtract my weight from, and call in the difference to the vet so he can prepare the next morning’s dose. The last time I wanted to wrap my arms around him like this he’d been gone days before I found him in Al Steele’s pasture, worrying a herd of spring heifers, ignoring my shouts, his leash wrapped uselessly around my fist as he chased down another night of freedom, chewing up roadkill and rolling in shit.