In his youth, Nicholai was jet black. A diminutive dot of white adorned his chin and the toes of his left back foot. One of his puppy nicknames was Blackpaws, since all his litter mates were decked out with four fully white paws. A year and a half ago when I realized that 'ole Blackpaws wouldn't be around long enough to get old, I mourned for the gray face I would never see.
Over the past few months, Nicholai has been "getting his old on." He's slimmed down since the salmon-poisoning event of December and in the ensuing months he's lost a little muscle mass, like old dogs tend to do. We are seeing gray creep around his muzzle, spreading from what was once a little white spot under his chin.
A while back, I worried about how I would help my big boy in his golden years. What if he couldn't climb the stairs, jump onto the bed, or hop into the car? I purchased a well-built set of wooden steps to assist him getting onto our tall bed at night, and a jaunty red harness with a handle that I pictured would help me help him up a staircase, into the car, or over a curb. I still didn't know how I would lift his ninety to a hundred pound self if needed – and I still don't.
Watching Nicholai strut along the trail this morning, in the company of one human and two dog friends – our Monday morning hiking date – I mused on how delighted I am to still have his sprightly self accompany me. No need of old-age assistance so far, but I'm not writing it off either. As he nabbed a tennis ball, I noted gray brows dancing above twinkling brown eyes.
What a privilege to have a dog get old. What a joy to watch light play in the eyes as the head thins and the face grays. If I should have the honor of Nicholai's company into his advanced years, I will be happy to face the challenge of lifting my big old guy.
He may be heavy – but he's my pack-brother.
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