<h2 style="text-align: center;">Aging in Place&#x2014;with My Dog</h2>As pills go, it&#x2019;s tiny. It&#x2019;s orange. It makes you pee a lot: It&#x2019;s the water pill. The official name is hydroclorothiazide.My sister has the same 25-milligram prescription. One morning at her house, I spied the pill in a little tray on the kitchen counter.&#x201C;You take this, too.&#x201D; I said. &#x201C;That&#x2019;s funny.&#x201D;&#x201C;It makes me get up at night,&#x201D; she lamented.&#x201C;Me, too.&#x201D; I replied.But when I rouse out of bed at zero dark thirty, I&#x2019;m not the one going potty. It&#x2019;s my dog, Bodie. He&#x2019;s on that pill. Me, I&#x2019;m just along as chaperone.Bodie is a Jack Russell Terrier-Chihuahua. In 2010 when I adopted him from Happy Tails (which dealt mainly in cats, but don&#x2019;t tell him that), his estimated age was two years. Currently, in human-to-doggie years, he&#x2019;s 66: The same age as his caretaker. I could say &#x201C;dad,&#x201D; which is true as status goes, but&#x2014;in a bit of inevitable nepotism&#x2014;Bodie also doubles as our ranch&#x2019;s Chief Security Officer. He&#x2019;s an employee&#x2014;and boy, does he let me know it, threatening tri...