What she does now, what she used to do

Timmy used to race through doors
Then she learned to wait
Now she won't come in the door at all. She stops. Looks around.
I enter, leaving the door open.
After a while, she walks in, too.

She used to pull ahead of me on our walks 
Then, she walked beside me. We connected, woman and dog.
Later, she slowed and walked behind.
Now, she moves like a plover, zigzagging about
Doing the old-dog amble, to one side then another, across the footpath, head down, sniffing
everything. Is she's aware of me? It's not clear.

She used to gulp her food - frantic, insatiable
Then, she got old. She lost teeth that were cracked
And others rotted in her mouth
Now, I cheer at any eagerness to eat

She used to pace and sniff round the garden
Pushing into beds of ivy and azalea
She dug in the dirt and ate it, sprinkling her nose with black grains.
Now, she stands on the grass. Her nose twitches.
Now and then, her tail wags.
Then it stops.
She stands and sniffs and her tail wags again.

Keen on her food