I'm not sure how old Maxwell was when his brow started going white. It seems like I just woke up one day and there it was. Every once in while I would gaze at his snowy white face and would be reminded that our time together was ephemeral, transient, far too short. His white brow was a sign of age. A sign of decline. A sign that he was heading towards his inevitable passing. But it was also a badge of experience, maturity, of summers and winters past. It was a reminder to me to cherish what time I had with him. Our furry friends leave us far too soon. When that brow starts to turn white hold your friend close, hold your friend dear, and stay by his side to the very end.