Barney wasn’t fast anymore. He wasn’t sleek or sharp or loud. But what he lacked in speed, he made up for in ritual. Each morning, Hazel Montgomery filled his dish with two scoops of softened kibble, sprinkled in a drizzle of warm chicken broth. And every morning, he’d sniff it, lick once, then nudge the front door with his aging snout — the same door he’d scratched at since he was a pup. Hazel no longer protested. She just wrapped his faded bandana around his neck, kissed the crown of his grizz