Wimpy Dog (aka Bart) is aging. Now 13, he shows his age in the silver in his gold face, the heaviness of his jowls, and the care with which he navigates stairs. Like any 90-year-old, he’s careful where he places his feet and prefers not to walk on slippery vinyl floors. That’s why there is a path of rugs tracing his usual routes through the house. Lately, though, with fall approaching, I have the puppy back, in attitude if not in the leaps he used to make as high as the top of the doorframe. He has to know everything I’m doing, especially offering to help sample cooking food. I can almost hear, “Are you gonna eat that?” when he looks at me during meals. He’s asking to go for walks again, though when the temp reaches 80, he signals he wants the air conditioner on. Anyone who thinks animals can’t communicate with humans has not tried hard enough to understand.