I had been living with a geriatric little Yorkie named Harry until he died over the holidays. He was 14, pretty close to my age in dog years. His cataracts were causing him to lose his eyesight, his hearing was gone and his joints were stiffening.

“Do you think he wonders what is happening to him?” I asked his lovely, kind Dr. Ross. “He must be confused when his legs won’t allow him to jump up on the sofa.”

“No, don’t worry,” she said. “He doesn’t think about it at all, he lives in the moment.”

I’d heard those words often, but never applied them to little Harry or thought too much about them myself.

I’ve had other dogs before Harry, but he was my first rescue dog and the first I’d had as an empty nester. He lived in a cage in a puppy mill for four years until I took him home. I knew he was truly grateful by the way he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. When my daughters visited they tried to lure him onto their beds with special treats. They called him “the little brother they never had.”

When one of my daughters was a little girl, she announced one day that she understood why old people like to sit on the porch in their rocking chairs. I asked her to tell me why, and she said, “They want to keep time from going by too fast.”

I’ve often wondered what made her think of such a thing. Aren’t we supposed to be involved, travel, keep up with new technology and volunteer so that our brains won’t wither and shut down? But this activity also hastens the clockwork and hurls us faster to where we’re going. So do we rock the time away or just let it whoosh out from under us?

It’s a question I’ve pondered a lot over the years, and one that Harry helped answer for me. As he aged I learned to watch him enjoy whatever came next ─ the way he sniffed along on his walk, head down in concentration, and the excitement he exhibited over food although he ate the same thing every day. The UPS truck still sent him over the top even though he couldn’t hear or see it. Some kind of vibration, they say.

Recently, for the first time since Harry died, I walked the route we often traveled together. It was a bright and shiny winter morning, and I realized I was smiling when I noticed each one of his favorite sniffing spots. And just like I did when walking Harry, I picked up my pace to pass by the house where a dog lived that he was afraid of.

And then it hit me, how I was living in the moment, just as Harry had taught me, which may be the only way to slow down the whoosh.

Nancy Wood lives in Vineyard Haven.