Ralph came back home with me.

I had not been sure that he would when I took our aging, hobbling 11-year-old Aussie/Lab mix dog to the veterinarian.

At times, Ralph looks pitiable. His once sparkling eyes are clouded by cataracts. He does not hear me call unless I shout. His once perky ears droop. His nerve-damaged left rear leg is more like a stick or crutch than a full-fledged leg. When he gets up, it takes him longer than it takes me to get out of bed, and that is a l-o-n-g time.

Is it time to put an end to this?

If Ralph stayed like that, it might be. But once he has limbered up his arthritic joints, Ralph comes close to being the dog that delighted us, our children and our grandchildren with his play-with-me attitude and his loopy, goofy, lolling-tongue antics.

I have not seen him run in a month or two, but the other day, I did see him trot. With warmer weather, Ralph forces himself to tag along with me and our other dog, Buddy, during our half-mile daily walks.

He barks when the package delivery driver pulls into the driveway, though he might not bestir himself to get up.

Once, that bark was full-throated. It could even be frightening. Ralph has never been combative with people, but he has taken his guard dog responsibility seriously with respect to deer, bears and other unwanted visitors.

When I took Ralph to the vet, he looked like he was on his last legs.

Four hours later, fortified by increased pain medication, Ralph silently padded up behind me and stuck his cold, wet nose up the leg opening of my shorts, seeking biscuits.

He got two, and a scolding for having made me jump.

But the scolding was paternal, not punitive. I think Ralph knew it.

I remember — sometimes too well — when, as a parent, I angrily reacted with shouts and belittling criticisms while confronting a dilatory child. Those outbursts were spawned by the anger that arises out of anxiety and worry, not genuine hostility. But the words still hurt.

The kids would usually be crushed. I would have to decide whether to try to make amends or to let time heal the wound I had inflicted.

Ralph doesn’t get crushed.

Oh, he cringes. His head sags, his shoulders droop, his longhaired tail tucks way up between his hind legs.

It is an act

I have never struck him in anger. I got Ralph when I was in my 60s and wiser than I had been as a thirtysomething, harried, financially challenged father.

These days, Ralph’s pitiable posture moves humans away from anger and toward sympathy for our beloved, long-suffering canine companions — never mind the mess of torn-up garbage or smelly parts of deer that died days ago, now dragged into our yard. We clean up. We offer biscuits. All is well. That’s a good dog for you.

At the veterinarian’s office, I tried to discuss whether to let Ralph limp along, or not.

I cried.

Crying is not a new experience for me, nor is it rare. A day earlier, I had cried at the cemetery in Warren as we planted flowers on graves, preparing them for the Memorial Day weekend. Those tears blurred my vision while watching my son Matt, himself now a fiftysomething guy, run the string trimmer around the headstone of my former wife who had had a huge hand in raising him.

She and I had our differences. We ended up divorced. But she was a stabilizing, caring co-parent for Matt and his two brothers as we brought them together with her daughter and then had two more of our own children.

So there was Matt, a just-retired Air Force colonel, on his hands and knees, brushing the trimmed grass clippings away from her grave. That is an acknowledgement.

So, yes, I cried. If Matt saw me cry, it wouldn’t have been the first time, and won’t be the last.

I laugh a lot, too. For the past 11 years, I have laughed at the joy and humor Ralph has brought to our lives. When at the vet’s office, I cried, that’s just part of it all.

The vet and her co-worker got misty eyed as well as we looked at Ralph silently looking back at us.

“Whatever you folks decide….” he seemed to say.

I decided that since he is not audibly groaning in pain, since he can still walk, since he can still curl up with our new kittens (Yes, our dogs do that) … aww, hell, he’s coming home where he belongs.

It might only be for a few days. It sure won’t be for years and years.

But we’ll take what we have left of our lives together, Ralph and I. And we’ll live those lives, not just exist.

Denny Bonavita is a former editor at newspapers in DuBois and Warren. He lives near Brookville. Email: notniceman9@gmail.com