Going With Guinness

I can't say for sure, of course. But all the signs seem to say he's in some part of the process: no movement, no barking, no taking of water or food for hours on end.

Given these facts, my first aim is to let Guinness know that I'm right here if he needs or wants anything. But I also want him to know that everything's fine, that there's nothing to fear.

"It's been a long time coming," our neighbors will say if Guinness goes—and we Banner-Groomes will all agree. But at the moment, this feels very sudden. Very immediate.

I open the door so Guinness can feel the mid-winter, mid-afternoon sun. But now the sun ducks behind clouds and what was peacefully warm a moment ago, has all of a sudden taken on a darker hue.

On with the lights! I've rearranged a Friday night dinner with a friend— because I cannot leave Guinness here and risk the possibility that he die all alone.

I say "alone", because my wife Lisa (who loves Guinness with unbridled devotion) and my son Henry (who assures me he has seen Guinness's soul) are both (for just this week) on the other side of the world. And I, poorly prepared substitute, need to fill their shoes.

But hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves. We don't know if Guinness will go in an hour, or a day, or maybe not even this whole week. So, what can I do? I sit close, and I write.

That re-arranged dinner of mine? I text my friend and he graciously agrees to shift from a restaurant on the Upper West Side to our humble abode in Pelham. So now, with the sun fully down, I open a Pinot Noir, and am chopping lamb cubes and roasting vegetables for kebabs.

And guess what? Getting up is good, because Guinness rousts himself and wobbles to his post in front of the dishwasher—the spot where he trained Lisa to always step high when crossing the kitchen.

Now, when I say Guinness "trained" Lisa, I don't mean over his entire life. I mean in just the seven swift months since Lisa adopted Guinness and joyfully swept him into our lives in his old, old age.

Because Lisa Banner, art historian that she is, just cannot bear for any beautiful thing not to be seen, and cared for, and loved.

And if you haven't yet noticed, Guinness is, in fact, a beauty. Some mix of Chocolate Lab and Noble, Un-named Beast, with a touch of Horse thrown in.

He was 110 pounds in his prime, with a coat two shades darker than the foam-flecked now—hence, his lovable, registered-trademark name.

Whoops. It's after 6. Time to start boiling water for the rice.

As a little break from Guinness, how about some background on me? I'm the founder of a software company called Pica9, where I spend much of my time writing blog posts that are absolutely nothing like this.

But as I sat in the front hall with Guinness, pecking away at some trivial task, it struck me that a visual story could be the perfect way to pay tribute to my fast yet fast-fading friend.

So, here we are.

And here, too, is my friend and long-time software collaborator, Chung, who arrives for dinner just as the rice reaches perfection!

Chung and I have a few things in common. For starters, we're both starters. Of businesses, that is. See that sweatshirt of Chung's? It's a new business that's based on acronyms.

As our dinner unfolds, Chung and I can't seem to stop talking about things that are just starting—like this new way of engaging with, and as, a society. Hopeful possibilities abound.