He Still Wants to Have a Ball

My husband and I used to care for three children; now it’s down to one senior dog. Curiously, though, the senior dog — with new patches of white fur around his tall ears, and trepidation when faced with another ascent of the stairs — manages to keep the element of play, something we normally associate with youth, alive. Soon he will be downright OLD, and yet much of the time he has a fiery look in his eye that says, “Come on..let’s go right now!” or “Throw that thing this second!” This contrast gives me paws.

It’s not completely accurate that we don’t care for the three children; they are still very much in our daily lives and we love them as we always have– they’re just distant, geographically, and standing on their own two feet (that makes six) establishing themselves in their twenties. Some of the ups and downs we hear about; others, we don’t. It’s also not completely accurate that Rocky acts like a kid all the time; he’s definitely showing signs of aging, sometimes wincing with arthritis and needing to go out in the middle of the night, for instance. But I don’t want to embarrass him here.

Dogs Are Different

It may go without saying, but he has definitely not been on the same “grow up and head out” path that Willie, Cora, and Henry have been on. He’s grown up all right, but his location has stayed the same: with us, moving only when we moved. In fact, most of the time, he’s just a few feet away from wherever we are. In a few months, he’ll turn 12– and a healthy 12, at that.

I am devoting this space today entirely to him, and, by extension, to all readers out there who have ever experienced a beloved animal reaching the last stage of his or her life and then realized just how much impact that creature has had, with a wallop to the heart.

Since our last dog, a Black lab named Zeke, left us too soon — at age eight — I am noticing with gratitude that Rocky is having a good, long life. I am also asking myself what, if anything, I could be doing differently to savor that fact more.

A friend of ours, with years of experience as a dog owner, told me recently that we inevitably see a dog’s life as a microcosm of our own, just compressed, sped up. We’re going in the same direction, just more gradually. What can we learn from our best friends, watching them age?

From the Beginning

Rocky was six weeks old when we brought him home from the Vermont shelter we visited, up near the Canadian border. As a pup, his ears went softly over, did not yet stand upright. At this stage, like any self-respecting baby, he was all about play.

Several years later, having adjusted to a new home in a different state, he sat with a regal air.

Now, many of you might think, as I did, that to calculate a dog’s age in human years, we just multiply by seven. So a two year old dog would be a teenager; a seven year old would be in his or her early forties, etc. Apparently, though, this isn’t exactly the case. If you go on the American Kennel Club website, you can find a chart that explains how the maturation rate is faster in the first couple of years and also how it varies for big and small dogs. Here’s a handy page: https://www.akc.org/expert-advice/health/how-to-calculate-dog-years-to-human-years/.

Still Playing

Fast forward six years, and we have Rocky as a slowing-down but still-eager dog. After an inflamed disc in his back brought him terrible distress a few years ago, he takes it easier. I don’t bring him running on the road with me anymore, and we plan our hikes so that they won’t be too taxing.

But when I’m doing outdoor work, he still manages to find and then drop a ball right near me. “Special delivery!”

And when the snow melts, the tennis balls re-emerge on the lawn and must be collected. Each one serves as a reminder of all the times I’ve gotten up from a task that seemed important to give him a little joy, in all kinds of weather.

Balls have their place, and sometimes he likes to work one over in his mouth for a good long while, but if Rocky could talk, he might say, “My kingdom for a stick!”

When someone pulls up the driveway, he heads right over to the wood pile, because it’s conveniently located, to show off a thick log. On our regular daily outing down a nearby dirt road, he’s fully content to do the first half of the walk just taking everything in, investigating all the new scents. On the way back, though, he must find a stick as soon as possible. If none is immediately available, he’ll go pull on a tree branch or a vine or anything that that satisfies his craving. Once we find one, the best game is the struggle that ensues: is it my stick, or is it his stick? The look in his eyes tells me that this, to him, is really living.

There’s something about this compulsion, this desire, that impresses me, every time.

What kind of flame will be burning in me, when I’m 72, 82, 92?

I hope to find out. In the meantime, though, while I acknowledge that I have a variety of responsibilities these days, I believe that paying attention to Rocky, tending to his quality of life, is a high priority. While I don’t usually catch Rob gazing at him (with Easter approaching, he’s got a lot else on his mind), I can definitely tell: he’s noticing him more than he used to. After all, our other kids are away.

Just a few days ago, I sprung for a more comfortable bed, replacing the old, green, thinly cushioned one we’ve had for many years. Good play and good rest have always gone well together.