Lex, our black Lab/Pit mix, turned 16 last November, so he is officially “old.” In dog years that makes him 115.5.
“Mr. Routine” often sleeps in till 10 AM now, and his now-varying patterns control our day. If he’s not let out to poop or pee immediately after he rises he can longer hold it in, and sometimes I’m not sure he even tries.We are captives in our own house.
Lex still expects his afternoon walk, although it has been shortened a good bit. His injured left CCL (like the human ACL) will never heal, and he’s too old for surgery, so he uses it like an unpredictable cane when he walks. No more jumping, no more stair climbing, so we’ve bungee-corded the back deck to keep him from trying to go down like he did in former days.
A large mass the size of your fist sits on his right side, and another growth adorns the left side of his tail; various smaller lumps and odd places have cropped up all over, and his eye has a growth partly blocking his vision. Come to think of it, I’ve got some spots the dermatologist is treating, too. Lex sleeps most of the day, and all night, too. The vet says his blood work looks amazing and she’s surprised how alert he seems.
”Getting old ain’t for sissies,” my late father-in-law, Marty, used to say. How true that is.
My wife and I are feeling some of that, too. We have a running joke around our house; several, in fact. One is this oft repeated phrase: “Old people. Whada’ya do with ‘em?”
It is usually said following some crazy mistake one or the other of us has made. Like the other day when I went to the grocery for the week’s shopping, filled the cart, and after the cashier had checked the numerous items . . . I realized I’d left the house without my wallet. (BTW this does not bode well for a perfectionist who tries to make the store-run in record time each week if left to his own devices). I had to laugh on the drive back home to retrieve my wallet, and I made sure to jokingly scold my wife for not including “take your wallet” on the grocery list.
Our muscles are atrophying (is that a word?), our joints ache, the chiropractor does what she can but she’s no miracle worker. My myopia seems to have improved as I age, but I can no longer see anything up close w/o glasses and PLENTY of light. My heart damage from 7 &1/2 years ago keeps me from doing anything very strenuous; in fact the nurses at cardiac rehab told me, “You know how you learned to get your heart rate up to 120 bpm and keep it there for 15 to 20 minutes for fitness? Don’t worry about that!” Hmmmm.
My wife has struggled with what was likely a TIA or something stroke related since 2020, resulting in some form of dysarthria and struggle with speech. She struggles with balance and has had several falls. Housework is increasingly hard. We are falling apart.
So when I take Lex on his daily afternoon walk I sometimes think of us being much the same; two old guys strolling along at painfully slow speed, trudging, sludging, plodding along, feet and paws heavy on the pavement.
There ARE differences. He likes to eat dirt and moss; I don’t. He smells all along his route (which seldom varies), sometimes stopping for a mouthful or two of grass. I can’t smell much of anything anymore unless it’s dog poop in the house. He defecates wherever and whenever it suits him; I can still usually make it to the indoor porcelain throne.
My youngest daughter is back living with us. She feels like she’s running an assisted living facility (another one of our running jokes).
When you reach what is now popularly being called “the last quarter of life” (like we’re in a football game – which, I must say, has many parallels to life) you suddenly have extreme appreciation for the ease with which you used to function. My legs have gotten so weak that without my arms (and something to cling to) I struggle to get up off the floor. Exercise for us is now walking in a large hardware store and doing a Silver Sneakers yoga video or two. Drinking coffee after 3 PM is unthinkable, and two visits to the bathroom during the night’s rest is a “good night” (sometimes it’s more than that).
Maybe we can learn a lesson or two from our dog, Lex. He stills gets so excited for his daily walk; he tries to spin around in excitement (which is scary to watch), then when we finally get outside he resorts to his labored and slow walking speed. He sleeps a great deal, and I have my afternoon nap. He still enjoys his meals most of the time, and NEVER forgets his after-dinner treat. He loves to see visitors in the house, strangers or not. He no longer has time (or energy) to chase other animals, and loud sounds annoy him (even conversation bothers him). He has learned when to use his feigned blindness or loss of hearing to his advantage.
Down the road . . . in the not-too-distant future . . . he will “move out” (as we have come to term it). And so will I. So will my wife. So must we all. In the meantime there is LIFE to be LIVED. And we had better get on with it.
Will there be dogs in heaven? Mark Twain seemed to think it would be a shame if there weren’t. I tend to agree.
My late mother with a much younger Lex in a long ago time.