Honoring the Elderly

By Kathryn Socie, 7-01-08

I noticed it again the other night.  Maybe it’s the evening light or maybe it’s just that time of day when things are moving slowly and I pay closer attention. As I settled in on the couch and the dogs crawled up beside me, I saw it in both of them.  Foggy eyes. You’re probably familiar with it, the natural lens change that occurs in dogs at about 7 years old, that tell-tale sign of maturity.  I caught it the first time in Walker over a year ago and was stunned.  He is so lithe, muscular, wild spirited, playful and, somehow, older?  Though I revel every time someone tells me what a cute puppy he is, the realization that he is not a pup, but in fact moving toward the other side of adulthood is a jarring reminder of the shortness of the canine life span, my absolute least favorite dog trait. 

Walker and Weez are textbook healthy.  Still, as eight year olds, anything can happen.  Though they do everything at mock ten, go anywhere, run like maniacs without so much as a stiff rise as they get up each day to do it all over again (and perhaps longer, faster, harder), I know what being eight means.  Rather, I know too well that dogs are short-lived animals.  My dogs are seemingly in their prime, but that can change suddenly, rapidly.  Not to mention the fact that if they max out their life span, which I am SO rooting for, we have ONLY ten years left.  What a rip-off.  I want so much more. 

Rather than get bogged down by the reality, I try to approach it with the fabled dog take on life and live in the moment, the right now.  If I truly followed this bit of canine-wisdom, however, I would promptly forget what happened in the very next moment, too busy living in the very now and probably go roll in something dead.  I definitely wouldn’t think about what Weez will look like as an old lady—will she be less blue?-- or wonder if Walker will really metamorphose from a cranked little punk, to a constantly napping, wobbly, deaf, old man.  It seems so impossible.

Already robbed twice, losing beloved dogs once to tragedy and then again to disease, I wish (hugely) for the opportunity to share life with Walker and Weez well into their elderly-ness.  In fact, I have a twinge of envy toward those with old dogs.  Like the guy I ran into the other day in the Rattlesnake who was pulling his fifteen-year-old Lab in a bike trailer only to stop at the creek, lift her out and toss a tennis ball a few inches into the water while she hobbled, stiffly, with pure, old joy in after it.  Three tosses later he loaded her up and they went smiling down the trail.  Heavy sigh.

Don’t get me wrong, I know having an old dog isn’t easy.  On top of blindness, deafness, incontinence, arthritis and alzheimers, there are steep veterinary bills, sleepless nights, and your daily dog-walk turns into a 50-meter crawl.  I won’t even go into the mounting guilt of continuing to live a normally dog inclusive life while leaving the dog behind.  Still, after a lifetime of living life according to my rules, on my terms, old dog-dom, for my dogs, will be the time of ultimate lavishness. All rules of yore will be tossed out the window.  Peeing in the house will be accepted and expected.  Eating excessively rich canned food is warranted and sleeping 10 plus hours a day stretched out on my bed is, by all means, a must.

Hmm, seems like very little will change in my house aside from the pee thing.

Sure, having old dogs will mean a different daily routine, a different life rhythm altogether in fact, but it won’t be any less entertaining. I definitely want to put off elderly dog life as long as possible, but when it comes I will wholly embrace it.