Old Gray Dog Just Ain't What She Used to Be

December is a dark month. The nights are literally longer, of course, but the days still feel long. It's as if a year that has flown by has suddenly turned coy and is reluctant to leave the party. It's dawdling, looking for its jacket in the pile of coats on the bed. It pauses to tell one more inappropriate joke at the door. It can't find its car keys. It can't remember where it parked the car. I want to cry, "Get out already!"

It is so tiresome, December. While the rest of the world is flinging their credit cards around shopping malls, thronging the grocery stores in preparation for Christmas, and draping every vertical object in twinkly lights, I shake my head in dismay. I feel about Christmas the way I feel about the Longhorns. I don't get what all the fuss is about--all the hoohaw over something that is a sure thing every year. Has there ever been a year without a post-season play off or a calendar without a December 25 on it?  Of course, part of the problem for me is that, in this town, everybody assumes that you give a shit about Mack Brown and the birth of Jesus. Honestly. Can no one in this town root for the other team—or no team at all?  Let's just get game day over with so life can resume its normal pace and concerns.  Better  yet, let's all do something nice and generous and peaceful for our family, friends, neighbors, and strangers throughout the year, instead of cramming it all into one 31-day period.

Adding to the December darkness are stories I've been hearing lately about old pets. My mum's cat has stopped eating and is wasting away. Sarah's (Tony) childhood cat has had incurable kidney infections. My Roma, too, has slowed down this month, lost interest in food. She gets confused when she wakes up suddenly. Her funny old face is whiter and her wise eyes are cloudier. Each time she lies down to nap, I wonder if she'll get up again. So far, she always does, but each evening, I pat her good night and say, "You do what you need to do, old girl." The process of watching an old pet navigate its waning days is hard, especially this time of year. So it cheered me today to read a lovely essay by Michelle Slatella in the NYTimes that describes the almost imperceptible process of living with a pet as it grows from puppy to creaky old thing a few short years. I enjoyed reading it, and I hope you do, too. Ta.
-z

Old Dogs, New Tricks

Okay, so forever only lasted a day. Muzzy and I left Roma at home just one night. We had a fine time at Dog Park, but when we got home, I had to take Roma for a walk of her own around the neighborhood. Enough with all the walking. So now Roma is back at Park, but tethered, and when people ask me why she is leashed, I tell them "Because I can't find leg irons that will fit her tiny ankles."

We had a bad week, Roma and I. Granted, she may have had the worst of it, with the puking and the diarrhea, but I'm the one who had to clean it up. And after getting left behind for one night (one night!), she now is starts to wind herself up for Dog Park before I even finish eating dinner. When we finally get there, she hurls herself out of the car, writhing in my arms as I lift her out, which makes me frustrated and grouchy. I yell at her. I tell her that she's going to hurt one or both of us and then where will we be? I look and feel ridiculous, yelling obscenities at a deaf dog in the Dog Park parking lot. How undignified. 

So I was chastened and humbled when I read this blog entry by writer Dana Jennings, who has an old dog and also feels like one as he deals with cancer. My Roma is old now—she'll be 14 on Thursday—but she's a tough broad, and I realized, of course, that I should be grateful for instead of cranky about the energy she brings to the Park every night. For her, every night is game night. Go, team!

Take a minute and read Jennings' entry. It reminded me to stop and thank my lucky stars—for good health and good dogs. I hope you can do the same. 

Take care!-z