Old dogs

For as long as I can remember dogs have grown old.  Death was never hidden from me as a child, and I have always known that muzzles go grey, dogs slow down, they don't live as long as we do and one day they die. 

I have very early memories of walking a docile old black Labrador called Bess through our village.  We were about the same height, and I was so proud to be allowed to hold the lead, although looking back she was the type of dog who just walked next to you regardless of what you did.  I remember trying to convince my dad that as the dog licence (!) was paid by someone I was related to then the dog must partly belong to me.  As we didn't have our own dog I desperately wanted just a fragment of that dog to be mine.  I'm sure I cried when she died, although I only saw Bess a few times each year.

I remember fondly many middle-aged and old dogs from my childhood, and I don't remember a single puppy.  We never had our own dog, but I had many friends in the village with dogs, and my uncles and aunts always had dogs.  I remember old dogs being treasured and loved, and mourned when they went.  I remember people going to such lengths to make their last days happy, and I remember many times those words of comfort "they had a good life" and knowing that that was important, above all else they had a good life.

It is a sad day when you first look at your dog and realise they have aged.  Not sad for the dog, they don't know, they don't think like that, and so often we say "oh he doesn't know he's old".  Age is kind to many dogs, they grow wise, they understand their families and their moods, they are comfortable in their surroundings, content in their daily routine of walks and food.  They owe us nothing, they are good dogs, one of the family.

A few stiff steps and a stretch to get the kinks out, a tad more effort needed to jump onto the sofa, but there will still be something that brings that old dog to life, and you see the joy in their face.  For Prin it was running on the beach - with occasional stops for rockpooling and to eat dead fishy things from the tideline.  For Bob, a squeaky toy.  For Toby, snow.  For Jess, balls.  Even after her sight completely went if she found a ball she would grab it and dance in front of you, then spit it out waiting to play again.  We got her one with a bell inside, so she could hear it when it rolled and she could still play her favourite game.

But from when we first see the grey hairs, notice the cloudy eyes, or realise a recall has gone unheard, we always know they have limited time left, and it makes us love them more fiercely, as though that will keep them with us for longer. 

I have lost count of the number of times I have looked at one of my oldies sleeping and my heart has missed a beat as I think they are too still, not breathing, then a tap or a shake and they blearily open their eyes, no idea you were home already and the youngsters had barked.  It takes a few seconds for them to focus on you, recognise you, and then they get their fuss and greet you.  They were just away in dream land, sleeping their days away, comfy and warm, and I smile with relief and love, just glad they are still here.

I've never lost one of mine in their sleep, although I know it happens, and I am torn between thinking it would be best for them, hardest for me.