[nagdu] how true--Fw: Dogs

[Ed Meskys]

Subject: Dogs


> WIFE/MOTHER/WORKER/SPY. The Wisdom of a Four-Legged Elder.
> NY Times Thursday, 2009-12-24
> By MICHELLE SLATALLA. E-mail: Slatalla at nytimes.com. FRIDAY is Otto's 
> birthday.
> He
> was a Christmas puppy, and when we met him a few weeks later at the 
> breeder's
> house,
> he was leaping into the air like a tiny porpoise to catch liver snacks. 
> This was
> in 1999, and his commitment to food had not waned ... until one day last 
> week.
> He actually slept through a meal? I asked my husband in disbelief. And 
> snack,'
> my
> husband confirmed grimly.
> We were standing in the doorway of the living room, where we could see one 
> large
> brown Labrador retriever sprawled across his favorite love seat, a 
> particularly
> filthy,
> dog-hair-covered couch that not so long ago had been a very expensive 
> piece of
> furniture
> upholstered in a light-colored fabric.
> That was before it became more of a hospital bed for Otto, who in his 
> dotage
> suffers
> from a long list of maladies including but not limited to arthritis, 
> recurring
> ear
> infections, fatty tumors, failing eyesight and a possible thyroid 
> deficiency. He
> gets up only when called upon to fulfill his contractual duties, which 
> include
> greeting
> anyone who comes to the front door as if they had been presumed dead. 
> Also, he
> investigates
> anything that sounds like the opening of the refrigerator, shopping bags 
> or
> cans.
> But now, he was snoring. Sort of. It was actually more of a strangled 
> rattle.
> And
> he was drooling in his sleep.
> Maybe he's dreaming about eating,' I said hopefully.
> My husband was dubious. What's going on with his head? he asked. It looks
> dented.
> It is really hard when your dog gets old. Maybe not for the dog -- Otto 
> seems
> more
> stoic and dignified than ever -- but definitely for the humans who live 
> with
> him.
> We remember the glory days when he slobbered on tennis balls, knocked over
> wineglasses
> with his tail and rolled on the carcasses of dead field mice to perfume 
> himself
> for
> us, his pack. And we only wish that era had lasted a lot longer. Like, 
> say, 80
> years.
> Human lives follow a certain trajectory; you come full circle. You move 
> from
> infancy
> to become a child, then make your parents' lives a living hell during your
> teenage
> years, then achieve adulthood (when your aging parents get to make your 
> life a
> living
> hell) until finally, if you live long enough, you get to make your 
> children's
> lives
> a living hell.
> With dogs, it's different. After you watch them grow from puppies -- your
> babies,
> your children -- into adults, you start to notice something miraculous. 
> Because
> they
> age much faster than humans, dogs attain wisdom much more quickly. They 
> outpace
> you
> on that front until suddenly it's 11 years later, and as you are still 
> running
> around,
> fretting about the children, your job and where you left your car keys, 
> you
> notice
> that your dog is looking at you with such forgiving, patient eyes. You 
> almost
> feel
> like he's gone from being your baby to becoming your grandparent.
> His skull does look kind of dented, now that you mention it,' I said.
> My husband Googled 'dented dog skull' and came up with prognoses that ran 
> the
> gamut
> from parasites to brain cancer.
> Maybe we should take him to the vet,' I said, which was code for, 'You 
> should
> take
> him to the vet.
> My husband went to search for Otto's truss, a complicated black girdle 
> that
> makes
> him look like an apartment superintendent, with its many straps that cinch 
> under
> his chest and around his legs. It has a handle so you can lift him like a
> suitcase
> and put him into the back of the station wagon. If you can lift an 
> 85-pound
> suitcase.
> An hour later, I heard the car pull into the driveway. My husband came 
> into the
> kitchen.
> How bad? I asked. He said with a sigh that it was $280 so far. No, I mean 
> what's
> wrong with the dog?
> He was just so amazing to watch,' my husband said. They prodded him, they 
> poked
> him,
> they took his temperature, they took blood, they biopsied some of his 
> fatty
> tumors.
> And the whole time, he just kept thumping his tail. You know this stuff 
> must
> have
> been really uncomfortable, but he acted like he was getting a massage.
> My husband stopped; he was choked up.
> It actually gave me hope,' he said. What do you mean?
> He coughed, delicately, tentatively. I have a terrible head cold,' he 
> said. But
> now,
> watching Otto's incredible bravery, I suddenly have the courage to get 
> through
> this
> thing.
> That night, we fussed over Otto, hoping he didn't have a malignant tumor,
> permanent
> facial paralysis, scary nerve-system degeneration or any of the other
> possibilities
> the vet mentioned. Being the center of attention lifted Otto to a higher 
> place.
> He
> thumped his tail on the floor. And he beamed at us, thrilled, as if he 
> were a
> slightly
> stinky emissary from the planet Love.
> This attitude, too, is different from that of most humans as they get old.
> I will never put Otto in a nursing home,' I vowed to my husband.
> He asked what in the world was I talking about.
> The next day, the vet called with the test results. We can't find anything 
> wrong
> with him,' she said. How does he seem to you?
> Old,' I said.
> Well, can he still do the things he loves? she asked.
> I glanced at the stains on the rug, at the hair balls skittering across 
> the
> floor,
> and I looked through the living room doorway, where I caught Otto's (good) 
> eye.
> He
> lifted his head, expectantly, slithered off the sofa and limped over to 
> me. I
> immediately
> understood the look.
> Yes, actually, I think he's feeling better,' I said. I opened the 
> refrigerator,
> found
> a dry hunk of salami and pitched it in the air. With hardly any effort at 
> all,
> Otto
> rose up and snatched it, like Namu the Killer Whale. Then he settled down 
> for a
> nap
> on what used to be my best sofa.
>


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