Time passing

The lack of activity here over the last few weeks is not an indication of apathy or boredom, just conflicting priorities. Between a few lackluster dove hunts and one highly unproductive quail hunt I've been tending to an aging member of the family. Finally had him put to sleep on the 18th, mainly to prevent the suffering that was coming hard and fast.

This one was never a bird dog. Any talent he was born with was stolen from him by his first owner. He came to live with me scared of his own shadow. a foster dog that I was supposed to rehabilitate to the point that he could go live with another family. After a year of steps forward and back he was ready but by then he was part of the family, so he stayed for the next 15 years.

As a youngster he would run in circles in my backyard for hours, literally to the point that he made berms in places. This returned in his old age but the circles were much, much smaller and the motion was a turtle's pace. His affinity for escaping the yard and spending the night out also returned, as I wrote about earlier this year.

The last few months were spent alternately soaking up sunshine and struggling with the basics. There were times, more frequent toward the end, when he could only point his nose toward some tangle of objects and become trapped in or under them. When the neural switchboard guides you away from open spaces and into things from which you cannot escape on your own, something is very wrong. His legs were slowly giving out and it occurred to me that it had been a long, long time since I'd seen that nubby little tail wag.

Where his soul goes from here is nothing but speculation. I'll disagree with anyone, though, who claims dogs don't have souls. I've seen too much to agree with such nonsense. His is now freed from a worn-out old body, free to jump on the bed and dig through the trash can and run in circles again. Godspeed, old man.

Playing chicken with the grim reaper

His back legs can't quite carry the load like they used to, bending under the weight of standing still and dragging toenails on the ground when he walks. He wobbles a bit, too. He's mostly deaf and his head droops much of the time. Episodes that are best classified as some sort of canine dementia carry him into a corner where he'll stand for long stretches until you tap him and he snaps out of it.

But his health is generally good, he never seems to be in pain, and at times (usually around meal time) he gets some spring in his step again. Hard to say for certain what a dog considers good quality of life, but being able to get around on your own, eat, drink, and sleep probably cover the basics.

Sometime on Monday he wandered through the electric fence and didn't make it back by supper time. I walked around the neighborhood looking without luck in places an old dog might wander. With temps in the 40s he wouldn't have any trouble surviving the night as long as coyotes didn't find him but several days without food would weaken an already frail body to the point that he wouldn't be able to get around. By the end of the week there'd be little chance of finding him alive.

Shortly before bedtime I came to grips with the fairly good chance that we might not see him again and I wasn't overly upset. Sixteen years is a long time and he does require more effort and upkeep than the younger dogs. We'd all be a little sad but wouldn't feel cheated in the least. Not knowing would be the only difficult part.

I came home at lunch on Tuesday to see if he'd turned up anywhere. No sign of him in the yard. No messages on the phone.  On an impulse I pulled in the driveway across the street to see if he'd strayed into their backyard like he'd done once or twice before. Having checked on Monday evening there really wasn't any reason to go back but unseen forces, maybe animal spirits at work, will pull you or push you to do things that aren't entirely logical.

He wasn't in the backyard and I walked to the edge of the woods, looking down a hill toward the muddy wetland that borders the creek. A white spot in the distance turned out to be a five gallon bucket.  A second white spot had some brown patches toward one end and turned out to be my dog, stuck chest-deep in the quagmire. A few more hours and this would have been a recovery operation. He could barely keep his nose out of the muck when I arrived.

In the two decades I've owned dogs I have never, ever seen one this muddy. Hell, I've never seen a pig this muddy. He looked like he'd been dipped in chocolate and left to soak. It took the better part of an hour and some unimpressive work with scissors to get him reasonably clean again. He was so exhausted he went to sleep while I was bathing him.

If I had gone on back to the office instead of taking one look behind the neighbor's house, if I hadn't looked exactly where he was mired, if I'd just waited to see if he turned up....the story changes completely. It's humbling that just one split-second impulsive decision can be the fence between life and death.

There's no question life around here would be easier if he were gone. Old dogs, like old people and old cars are high maintenance. But we get attached to all of them. Maybe that attachment is the unseen force making you do things that aren't entirely logical.

Somewhere is a line beyond which you stop doing whatever is necessary to keep an old dog alive. I guess I haven't quite crossed it yet.

When they take over..

....we'll be reading, watching basketball, and nodding off from the floor.

Getting old is for the birds

When I was younger there were certain things that never seemed in short supply. Energy was one.  This must be what bubbles from the fountain of youth if there is such a thing.  I don't really know where it came from but sometimes I'd just run for the hell of it.  No stopwatch, no race, just running.  Once I wore a circular track in the backyard complete with berms in a few corners.

Deference was another.  Maybe it's the way I was brought up but I had respect for my elders.  I waited my turn, I listened when they gave instruction, I tried to live up to their expectations.  Remember those Question Authority bumper stickers?  I never had one. Just didn't have that rebel streak in me.  I did sneak out once, though.  Stayed gone for three days and couldn't believe the commotion it caused.

Apathy, on the other hand, bucked the trend.  It was nowhere to be found.  I cared about everything - big, small, dead, alive, new, old, clean, dirty - it was all interesting in one way or another.

Maybe I've seen all the world has to offer but now the give a shit factor barely budges the needle most of the time. Apathy and I have coffee daily. I don't know when, exactly, it all started to change.  If I had to guess I'd say it was a very gradual process, imperceptible on a weekly basis but at work nonetheless.  Slower than snowmelt but faster than water carving rock.

My joints never accept the notions I have for them, stiff, aching liabilities that they are. The stairs to the second floor might as well be Camp 4 at Everest by the end of the day. I used to see these old men walking around, shuffling actually, with their heads down and their shoulders rolled forward.  There's a preponderance of the day that I don't feel like holding my head up.

The doctor says my eyes are getting "cloudy", whatever that means.  I hope they don't fail or all these people who communicate with me through overzealous hand signals are going to be out of luck.  I know my hearing is slipping away but honestly, with these kids around the house it doesn't bother me much.  It comes in handy.

I got these round, fatty things all over me.  They feel like jello under my skin.  Doctor says they're nothing to worry about since they aren't attached to the bone or something but can this kind of thing really be good? Old age is undeniable, I don't care who you are.

I've narrowed the list of things I do care about down to two: food and a place to lie down, that's about it. I'll snitch food off of the table with everyone in the room. I'll knock over the kitchen trash can and have at it. Can't get enough of it.

And give me a place to lie down, any place really, and I'm happy.  A soft place is better what with my bones aching like they do, did I mention that already?  But this time of year a place in the shade or near a fan or next to an air conditioning vent is just fine.

This is the stuff I think about now that I'm old.  There are also things I prefer not to think about.