Getting Old

Well, it' official. Nicholai is ten years old. I breathe a little sigh of relief, though why it matters so much, I'm not sure. I guess it just comes down to having time; time together, time for adventures, time to slow down, time to change. My previous dog Molly, lived to the ripe old age of fifteen. During her last couple of years, she got really old – stiff and slow and leaking pee. She slept most days away, and appeared content to putz around the yard, take a few rides in the car, or get pulled along in her red wagon. By the time she slipped away one December night, we had said goodbye many times – goodbye to hikes in the Gorge, goodbye to runs, goodbye to long walks, goodbye to walks at all. I'd had lots of time to prep myself for her final exit, which – I was a touch dismayed to discover – did not eliminate grieving when she died. But through my sadness, I felt a lot of gratitude for the quiet days of her elder-hood and for the honor of walking with her to the very end.

Nicholai is a big boy, as I have mentioned. We think he should weigh about ninety pounds; he does his best to keep his weight at ninety-five or better. He complains often and loudly of starvation and neglect. Quietly, after we have gone to bed or left the house, he steals pies, or bread, or raids the chicken bucket – a white plastic bucket that lives on the kitchen counter and into which we put crusts of bread, left over salad, and other delights for our chickens to enjoy. Nicholai has the prosperous look of a well-to-do dog, one who suffers a lot less neglect than he might try to tell you about, if he had the chance.

As I've looked at him in recent years, I've begun to wonder how I'll care for him when he gets old. With Molly – at sixty pounds – I could lift her when necessary, carry her up or down the stairs, give her a boost into the car, or lug her down the block. Nicholai I can barely get off the ground. Two years ago I purchased a set of six carpeted wooden stairs to place at the foot of the bed, so that he could get up and down on his own with ease. I worried about when he got old, when he had trouble moving. How would I help him? I didn't want to see him unable to get around or have to struggle with caring for him. Then suddenly, it seemed as though I wouldn't have to. And in that moment, old looked good. I longed to see Nicholai with a gray and thinning face, thick joints, and jerky, wooden movements. I'd figure out how to help him get around if it came to that, and now, I hoped it would come to that.

Therein lies the dilemma – my dog companions, whom I love up to the sky and back again – will either get old – with all that comes with that territory – or they won't. As it turns out, I'd rather put up with old - arthritis, leaking pee, a plethora of pills, selective hearing, and slowing down. I'd rather walk the long slow walk to a distant end. But I will take what I can get.