Dog & People years

This morning, Facebook tossed me a picture from six years ago. It was Bob swimming in the exercise pool as part of the vet-sponsored Biggest Loser contest back when I first adopted him, back when he was dangerously obese. Bob is not a fan of water. But he DID win the contest! And has been a healthy weight ever since.

I adopted Bob on March 15, 2011. The Ides of March. Which is relevant only because that helps me remember the date. No stabbing involved. March 15 is now known as “Gotcha Day” and eminently worthy of celebration.

This Facebook thing reminded me that Bob is now well into his 7^th year (DHA and I reckon he was 1-1/2 years old when I got him). Last week, after one bag’s worth of denial, I finally purchased a bag of “Active Longevity” – Science Diet’s signal that your dog has moved into the next demographic. Great. He’s still a puppy-like goofball. But we all know where this is heading.

And I realize that Bob and I are the same age. In dog years, Bob’s in his mid fifties. A little grey. Delighted to sniff around the neighborhood and meet other dogs walking their people. Then go home for food and sleep. Occasional explosions of physical exercise (typically chasing the cat, or often with no discernable reason). Snuggle on the couch, then curl up in bed.

Ya know, except for the fact that I don’t greet my neighbors by sniffing their butts, that pretty much describes my mid fifties too.

I know where this is heading, Bob. You caught up to me in age, and now you’re gonna blow by me and just get, well, old. And you’re gonna show me how to do that. Meanwhile, you are not gonna pay any attention to that ticking clock. You are gonna wrestle with your little cat sister Penny because it’s fun for both of you. You will continue to scramble, SCREAM down the ubiquitous stairs of our house, until you have to take the stairs a little slower.

And I ain’t going quietly into that good night any more than you are, darlin’

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob

Oops. Bog posts out of order...

Today was the dreaded monthly heartworm/flea/whatever parasite treatment day.

Bob alone is not a problem. He trusts me not to hurt him when I hold him down to squirt the flea kerosene between his shoulders. I reckon that's the recommended spot because he can't lick it off. Which suggests it would not be such a good idea if he did lick it off. Which makes me wash my hands really well before I give him the yummy heartworm pill as a "reward."

With Penny, though...She's a sweetheart who wants my attention and cheek/neck skritchy skratches all the time but, well, she's a cat. So it has to be on her terms. One of which is that she always has an escape route. I'm happy to give her that, except when I have to part her between-the-shoulder-blades-fur once a month to administer that which a responsible cat owner must administer. Escape route closed until medical procedure done. Not to mention that said medical procedure requires access to less preferred part of her body. Needless to say, she emits pitiable cries worthy of Opera Delaware during the procedure. On release, she high tails it to her retreat. Where her box is. And throws a freakin rock&roll diva temper tantrum of litter ("It was drugs, what can I say"). 15 minutes later, she's back out for skritchy skratches.

Together, though, Bob is SUCH a good kid, and Penny so suspicious. Hmm. There's a lesson in here so, thanks Bob and Penny!

Bob's now 6 years old. Absurdly, I have stopped paying attention to his lesson, and rarely write to this blog. My bad.

I just got back from a week away, during which he was a a really great boarding place where he gets to play with and sniff at all the other dogs. I can even check on line how well my dog is socially doing, Bit of a worry...he seems to skirt around the outside. But whatever. He's good.

A week away is a long time. He kinda didn't know what to do about me at first. Plus, Penny had had the glorious run of the house for a week. We all are reestablishing our roles in our household.

And then, Thunder. And Hail. I hugged Bob as we watched the iceballs pellet our back patio. And with my assurance, he relaxed.

My trip was time with my parents and with my dear high school friends. All of us have been through the wringer of life. Thunder and Hail. But... Hugs and caring help. Always.

Disruption is difficult. But it knocks me out of complacency and  reminds me to be grateful.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob

Chirp

The battery in one of my smoke detectors faded so it started to chirp. Thankfully this was at 9 pm instead of 4 am. Yeah, you know how that goes. The chirping really doesn’t wake you up. But it totally freaks out the dog. So I replaced the batteries and the chirping stopped.

Bob is still a little bit freaked.  Unsettled.  He’s staying close, and I reach down to nuzzle his muzzle.

And I realize that I’m a little bit freaked too. How much we are connected, how much he needs me. And how much I need him to need me. 

It’s been kinda weird lately – so many people ask how old Bob is. They think he’s a puppy, because his big paws look like something he needs to grow into.  But he’s almost six. That’s like serious middle age for a dog.

And recently, so many of my friends who are dog parents have had to deal with the thing you sign up for when you bring a dog into your life. My heart breaks for them. I’ve been there. And will be again.

Shit. He’s six. I’m starting to hear the chirping. I know we still have several years together. But I also know where this is ultimately gonna end up.

Bob, oh gosh, I’m just not sure the pain is worth it. But, here we are. So I guess we decided it is.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Water

Penny and Bob are amenable to sharing a water dish. For those of us who worried if they would ever peacefully coexist, this is a great relief. Still, this requires me as pet parent to ensuring that said water dish is always full. I confess I am not so good at that.

Ya see, all my previous dogs, and even cats, have figured out how to drink from the toilet. Much as we pet owners have positioned ourselves as being disgusted by this, we are secretly delighted that our furbabies have a constant source of water if we fail to refill the bowl with clean drinking water. Which we frequently do. We’re not perfect.

So, ya know, the toilet’s a pretty good back up to making sure our pets don’t get dehydrated.

Unlike my previous dogs, tank-like small Bob just can’t get into the toilet. And Penny, gymnast that she is, doesn’t seem to have the dexterity to pull it off either. And I wonder – are my furbabies uniquely lacking? I mean, Bob is not big, but he’s not Paris Hilton accoutrement size either.

No. They are not absurdly or fashionably small. They just can’t reach the toilet, and thereby assuage me of guilt of their dehydration.  Huh? Why?

And I realize when I scrub the toilets, and they take interest. I put the seat up. Which, being a single female, doesn’t happen very often. After I flush down the Comet, of course, they are VERY interested. Special moment when the seat goes up.

So someone missing in my life turns into something missing it their life. As simple as how to pee and drink. Who knew.

Bob’s mom realizes it’s not all that simple solo. Even if we’re only talking dogs and cats.

Good lesson. Thanks Bob.

Being loved for being

My church has a women's group once a month. This Saturday's topic was gratitude. As women, our bigger problem is accepting gratitude. Really? Do I deserve that?

This  doesn't  even occur to Bob. He doesn't have to do anything to be loved. And he is oblivious to the concept that it could be any other way. Love is there, Or it is not. Bob just sniffs it out either way.

Like you Bob. I don't need to do anything different to be loved.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob