The Way It Is

You getting up? Because I'm getting up. Yup. We're up.

Chet Baker, on second wakeup at 7 AM. He gets up at about 5:40 AM to pee, then we come back and he goes back to sleep for an hour, and I don't. Pills (=treats) at 7. No ifs, ands or buts. Good thing he's so cute. I did not know when I started him on his first thing in the morning pill routine about 15 months ago that I was in fact creating a monster. This dog, who would sleep in with me as long as I wanted on the rare mornings I did that, now has timers on his bladder and stomach that ring loud and clear. And it doesn't matter if you were up until 1 AM. You're going to get up with him. So between Chet and the dawn chorus, we're up with the birds.

The good part of that is that after losing prodigious amounts of hair to thyroid issues and a tenacious skin infection for more than a year, he's finally growing shiny black hair back. You wouldn't believe how that helps my spirits, to see his hair fill in again, even though I'm not sure, after having had him on antibiotics since September, that we have the skin infection licked. I had become convinced he was simply going to be naked for good. He's on two heart meds for a murmur that cropped up 15 months ago, and one (Vetmedin) seems to be helping quite a bit. Though he still moves beautifully, in early May he finally started  hesitating at stairs and even small jumps. I feared it was his heart, going south, but his wise veterinarian suggested a painkiller. Two hours after taking it, he was a different dog. Deramaxx is an NSAID that has made a huge difference in his mobility and attitude. It really gave us some essential Chet back. The other big difference has been feeding him twice a day. His hardworking heart was burning up all his energy just pumping, and he dropped weight steadily. And almost doubling his food intake in two medium-sized meals daily has made a huge difference. He's finally gaining it back! That little pot belly is a welcome sight. I really like Fromm Family kibble, my third and final food choice for Chet Baker. Good food, it is.

This senior dog stuff ain't for sissies. It's been a long year plus of worry and vet visits and hair and little shoes dropping one after another. We seem to have struck a balance of sorts with a skillfully orchestrated medication regime. I'll never give another dog the systemic tick medication called NexGard, that I know for sure, for it was that folly on my part that seems to me to have kicked off all the rest of the cascading issues back in late winter of 2016, starting with the ear infection and the sudden deafness, proceeding to the heart murmur and a suddenly done-for thyroid. Some veterinarians tell me the tick poison had nothing to do with it; that Boston terriers are prone to heart murmurs and bad thyroids. And some veterinarians I've talked with say that systemic tick medications have become dangerously toxic as the ticks build up resistance to the more innocuous ones we used to administer. I wonder if it's true that Boston terriers are prone to these issues. Maybe they are simply the kinds of dogs we love so much we over-medicate them in trying to protect them. It's worth thinking about. And I do.

Chet used to sit and stare at me, hoping I'd ask him if he wants to go for a walk. Now, in a sweet reversion to puppy days, I carry little cubes of freeze-dried beef liver in my pocket, little bribes to keep him following along. Any route we take that starts at the house invariably ends in his pretending to find something interesting in the grass, slowly turning, and then laying back his ears and trotting with increasing speed and determination back home, liver treats or not. I have become used to the sight of my dog's rapidly receding back end, to leaving a sliding door a little open so he can let himself in and flop down in his bed until my return.

Now, to get Chet Baker to go for a walk or run with me, I have to put him in the car, to remove that "turn for home" option he seizes first. We drive to one of our distant routes. And then things go fine. In fact, we've both accommodated to his deafness and his tendency to lose sight of me so beautifully that I've ditched the leash and the obnoxious sheep bell I used to put on his collar. We keep each other in sight. Period. If I stop to look at something and he loses me, he stops, thinks, and looks back over his shoulder instead of panicking and bolting for home like he used to. He sticks to me like a tick. 

It's good to see the native intelligence of this little animal kick in, to see him compensate for his disabilities, even as I, too, have become hypervigilant to his whereabouts at all times. If he's unaware that he's deaf, at least he knows he isn't able to monitor me with his ears any more. So instead of striking out yards ahead, he follows behind or right beside me. If he goes ahead, he looks back over his shoulder every 20 seconds or so. It makes my throat catch to see him checking so frequently, to think that he's always worrying a little about losing me.

I know the feeling. 

What is this pact we make with our dogs, that binds our hearts so tightly together? By the time you realize that living with a senior dog isn't nearly so much fun as, say, romping around with a sleek and shiny five-year-old over hill and dale, it's too late. We're in the chute, me and Chet, and it's going to play out the way it's going to play out. Suddenly you've got the equivalent of a car payment going out each month, and you look out in the driveway,  expecting a shiny new Subaru, but all that you see is the same little black and white cruiser you've always had, and he's headed home, and it's time for his pills again. And you adjust. You simply adjust. You love him for the magnificent dog he was, and for the dear little gent he is, and for whomever it is he becomes, because a love like this takes a love like that.