What to do when the dog gets old.
Hint: It’s a lot of worrying.
Don’t worry, the dog in question is not dead. At least not yet. Dark? Well, if you’ve ever been the owner of a pet you know what awaits us all. So yeah, this is another losing-a-pet article. I know a bunch of you might read it though, because I read these type of articles. They remind me of what’s coming and that others go through it all the time. Plus, in my version today, my dog isn’t dead.
But my dog is old. Not the few gray hairs on his chinny-chin-chin age. We’re talking the hacking, coughing, slow to walk, stumbling around the house, tired after a few tosses of the ball old. It’s the Old old, where you know that this cannot go on forever.
My dog is also the old that eats all of his food, wags his tail happily at every person he meets and knows. He’s the run around the house (for three minutes) and chase toys. He’s climb on the bed, cuddle on the couch, why aren’t you taking me with you in the car old. Which means he’s that frustrating old.
If you’ve been fortunate enough to have a pet get to this stage of old age you know what I mean. But for those of you who don’t know I’ll explain. This is the age of old where they look and act happy, healthy, content and energetic, until they fall. And when you have a 70-pound dog that is losing the ability to walk because of nerves firing incorrectly, each fall makes you wonder if this is it.
To be fair, I’ve had a few “Is this it?” moments with my dog. The first was pre-Covid when he suddenly couldn’t get up. I rushed him to the ER vet only to have him jump out of the car and run around making me look like a complete liar. Then there was the first time he refused to come down the stairs of my apartment building. Not a great idea when there’s no elevator and you’re (thankfully only) on the second floor. He makes sure I get my steps in as it’s now part of the daily routine — I go down the stairs first, walk back up to him, and walk up and down about four steps constantly until he either gives in or I lose it and pick him up.
The picking up is not the best option as he despises it and it’s dangerous for a person with a busted ankle to carry a flailing unhappy 70-pound dog down stairs you now can’t see.
The falls started after that. Maybe he was playing and he tripped over his back legs, maybe one just gave out. But every now and then his back end just quits. Is this it? I think as he struggles for 10 seconds to get back up, which he always does. And that’s the issue.
He doesn’t fall all the time. Just sometimes, scattered about in such a manner that I can’t get comfortable about doing something about it. (You know the something, we call it taking the dog to the farm or putting him down.)
If it’s at all possible, he has gotten even more adorable in his old age. I’d show you, but unlike my other younger tiny dog, the old guy has never enjoyed getting his picture taken. (All these profile pictures of him are making sense now huh?) I didn’t think dogs could get cuter as they aged. I honestly thought they’d get icky and gross, like all super old things. (I worked for a vet as a technician for years, trust me old old things get gross. Except trees. Old trees just get cool. That’s another talk for another time.)
And so I have this cute old dog that still brings me toys to play tug. He sits on the patio in the sun, even though he has breathing issues and it makes him unbearably hot, until I have to drag him back in the house like a petulant 6-year-old kid. “I’m doing it for your own good!” I tell him as he stands at the closed door confused as to why I won’t let him get close to the borderline of heat stroke.
It’s that statement that gets me each time though, “doing it for your own good,” because I’m not sure I know what that is. Wouldn’t for his own good involve X-rays, surgeries, tests and meds? Wouldn’t for his own good be hopping him up on pain killers or hooking him up to walking assistance contraptions? Wouldn’t for his own good be trips to the vet each time?
The answer is, of course, there’s no good answer. The vets have said that X-rays are expensive and this is most likely neurological, so there’s nothing that can be done if there’s nothing to physically fix. Surgeries are also a huge risk at his age and with his breathing issues. He’s got a better chance of not making it off the surgery table. He despises anything on him so a doggie wheel chair is just something he will fight. And he hates going to the vet, so those trips would cause more harm than the little good they can produce at this age.
For years, as I worked for as a vet technician, people would seek me out for advice about their old pets. Were they doing the right thing? Is their pet in pain? Should they take them to the vet and try more invasive surgeries, medications, treatments? I always told them with compassion and understanding that their pet will let them know when it’s time. And the truth is, they do. There comes a point when you asking the question becomes less of a “Am I doing enough?” and more of a “Am I doing too much?” It’s that line between helping your pet because they want to live and keeping them alive because you can’t let go.
My dog isn’t there yet. He is still the happiest boy in the neighborhood. Every day he rubs his face all over the carpet and couch and me, in his happy ritual of waking up in the mornings. Each evening he grabs a toy to do a little play session. He still waits for me to grab my food before he eats his own. He watches over me as I get ready for work or to head out to see a friend. On cooler days we can walk to the neighbors house to get treats and pets. He still looks at me with bright happy eyes.
And that’s it right there…it’s the eyes. His eyes are full of love and wonder and joy, when they’re not filled with annoyance and frustration at the fact I just want 5 more minutes of sleep. I just remind myself he’ll tell me when he’s ready to let go. It won’t stop me from worrying and fretting. That’s just part of the deal when you choose to love a dog.
He’ll tell me when he’s ready. And he’s not ready yet.
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