Getting Older

Our dog has been with us nearly 13 years. Come this Christmas, we will celebrate his 13^th year with us and he will be…maybe 14?  More than likely, 15?  When we adopted him (and he rescued us), the vet said she thought he was a full-grown black lab/Great Dane mix about two years old.  He was the height of a large lab and weighed 72 pounds.  In the following several months, Forest gained an inch in height and 28 – 30 pounds (depending upon the season).  So, we concluded he must have only been a year old when we got him.

               But we could be wrong.  Either way, he’s getting pretty aged for a large dog.  According to statistics, his mix of breeds only live an average of 9 to 10 years, so every day is a blessing.  And honestly, as he ages, I feel my own age as well.

               When he started getting white around the muzzle and up his back legs a few years ago, I noticed the first of the amazing grey hairs on my own head.  As his coat has developed more and more white, so has mine.  His are a little more prominent, because his coat is shiny coal black. My dirty blonde/light brunette coloring favors hiding the grey a little better.

               Then about a year and a half ago, we started noticing his back legs getting stiff.  He had an occasional fall or trip on the stairs, but never with an injury.  I commiserated with him, because when I sit too long, my knees stiffen, too.  I creak and groan and limp around for a few minutes until the joints get a little lubricated.  Fortunately, both of us still have our original joints, but that means they stiffen. They also ache in the rain – this is not an old wives’ tale!

So when I started popping glucosamine, he started taking pain pills and anti-inflammatories.  My arthritis is holding steady and is being contained with my over-the-counter supplements.  His, however, is steadily getting worse.  And with each passing month, the list of things he doesn’t do anymore grows.

He no longer wants to play fetch.  Well, he wants to, but he can’t really.    He used to take two walks a day. If we didn’t take that second walk, he’d lie up on our back hill and refuse to come in the house, letting us know he expected that second trip to the woods.  Nowadays, he wants one walk, though he has to take a break at least halfway through. 

               I used to love that second walk myself.  In fact, I still do.  But I find myself going slower to allow him to rest, and realizing that the slower pace is easier for me, too.

Recently, he started needing pill pockets to take a few of his many pills each day.  He used to grab them out of the air as we tossed them, but now he sniffs each pill carefully and there are a few he simply will not take unless they have peanut butter, cream cheese, or a pill pocket on them.  I used to take no pills at all, and now I choke down 5 in the morning and 4 at night.  I don’t need peanut butter, but I do find that a little dark chocolate as a reward afterward helps me feel better, at least mentally.

Forest’s eyesight and hearing appear to be diminishing, too.  That could account for why he can’t nip those pills out of the air very well.  It also could explain why he doesn’t follow commands as well as he used to do.  But for that matter, I’ve had two cataract surgeries myself, and frankly, I’m retired.  I don’t have to follow commands anymore.  Seriously.  There are a few perks to this aging thing.

So Forest and I are aging, somewhat gracefully, together.  This getting older thing is not for the faint of heart.  And I’m grateful I have my dearest furry friend to help me.