My dear Chloe is getting old, like me.

She’s my Corgi mix rescue, whose light shines wherever she is.

When we first moved to this small apartment, I put the bed on booster shoes so I could store blankets and stuff under it. She just jumped up on it nimbly. No problem. But now she’s mostly deaf and blind, I got a sturdy plastic box and covered it with carpet and made a step for her. That worked fine until one day, the plastic split. She didn’t get hurt, but she lost confidence.

I ordered dog steps for her and they’re supposed to arrive tomorrow. In the meantime we have a ridiculous routine. She comes to the bed and looks at me mournfully. I can lift her if I have too but she doesn’t like it and frankly, I’m not all that confident either.

For maybe five, maybe ten, minutes, she puts her front feet on the side of the bed. I encourage her. C’mon, baby, I’ll catch you! She makes a feint or two, turns around, takes three or four laps at her water bowl, walks into the bathroom and comes back to try again. Eventually she does jump and I grab her and haul her up.

Come ON, steps!