For the Love of an Old Dog

I had a bit of a surreal experience today. I cried over Ozzy Osbourne's dog, Rocky. Rocky was a gorgeous little black and tan Pomeranian who lived for 15 years. Osbourne had posted on X (formerly known as "Twitter") that he had lost his long-time companion. I posted my condolences, saying that I felt sad for the hole now in his life. And then I sat back in my chair and I cried. Even now, tears are welling up.

Why, you ask? Good question--and below I hope that I will post an answer that will suit you. But I can tell you that I had no idea until fifteen minutes ago that Ozzy Osbourne had a dog, let alone an old dog. I am not an Ozzy fan. I might be able to list about four songs from his extensive discography, all of them from the early 80s. But he had a dog. He loved that dog. That dog died.

Naturally, Kim being Kim, Kim had to cry. I'm not ashamed to say it. I have strong empathy for people in emotional pain. I still don't "people" well--and that empathy might very well be part of it. Regardless, it doesn't stop me from feeling sad in the face of someone's loss, especially in the face of the loss of a dog or a cat or any other loved one. Some people in my life don't seem to understand that, even though I'm a breeder and a homesteader who's owned many animals, loss of those animals doesn't come easier with age. It might be because, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'm getting closer to the end of my time with my animals. I'm 63. I've come to accept that each one I lose is one that is that much closer to the close of this chapter.

Dan is much nearer to that than I am. He's 80 and down to what will probably be the last four dogs he will ever own: Cowboy (14), Luna (6), Archie (2), and Vex (4 months). He is reasonable in his concern that Archie and Vex will outlive him, although he knows that they will always have a home at my cottage. Both of us can be fairly certain that Cowboy will never have to know a day without his beloved Dan, suffering like Hachiko as he waits for his friend to return to him. It's tough knowing that Cowboy is possibly not going to be with us in the spring, but that makes his life now all the more precious, to be treasured.

Don't get me wrong. Dan loves Luna, Archie, and Vex, but just yesterday he made the observation that Cowboy gets more spoiling than all three of them put together. Just like Copper, who got treats from me at every mealtime, even more than by much-adored Yaddle, just to be certain we could keep the weight loss at bay. Cowboy and Copper--and, presumably, Rocky--fit our lives the same way our old familiar slippers fit our feet, or how our bodies fit the little depression that's formed in our favorite armchair. They've walked miles at our side, slept for hours each day when we do. They have even kept watch over us when we go into the bathroom, guarding against the horrors of the tub and the scary flushy-swirly. They are eternally present, until they're not. Every day, Cowboy and Leela (who is my shadow now that Copper has left her) get dog cookies, bits of our meals, and fawning moments spent with extra "pets" and loves that none of our other dogs get. They get them because tomorrow, tomorrow they might be gone, and we will be posting their final photos on social media.

So, what makes an old dog? Is it just time? Not in my opinion. To me, an "old" dog is one that has lived more than two-thirds of his or her expected life span, yes, but has also taken on certain characteristics. He or she has a "venerable" expression--you know it when you see it! He or she finds the first or biggest treat without having to shove other dogs away. The old dog will give or receive love only on their terms. Walks become casual, sniffing affairs that take longer periods to go shorter distances. There's some special kind of dignity that comes with the distinction of age in a dog, some kind of special comportment that makes the younger dogs defer willingly to them and accept that, just for the moment, they are second place to their elders. They can go outside or on car trips to new adventures. They still have ribbons to be won and courses yet to conquer. Eventually, they too will have the sunken brows of their adored elders, and they will feel the torch being passed from them to their descendants (spiritual or otherwise) in favor of the comforts of a soft cushion and a piece of pasta slipped to them furtively off the side of a plate.

It's been my pleasure to own a number of old dogs. It's hard to let the old ones go. But there is still nothing that can beat an old dog in my heart. Every grizzled face, whether belonging to my dog or to someone else's, makes my heart melt. Every self-deprecating toothless canine grin that comes when they have to ask for help getting onto the couch that they once leapt upon brings a bittersweet smile to my face. The appreciation they feel when the spring breeze cools them, feeling the blades of grass they cannot see helps me appreciate the things that are truly meaningful in life, as they do. I adore the fresh faces of tiny puppies, but it is always the love of an old dog that keeps them in my life.

Beausoleil (In memoriam)

Beau was my special dog, the dog I still mourn over a decade after his death. Beau barely knew he was old. He still ran agility until he was over twelve years of age, well past the time the cancer started to eat away his once-strong muscles. Then, one day, he decided to enter retirement. It was all on his own. He knew he couldn't do it any longer. It was on that day that Beau decided that he was "old." He spent the last months of his life sleeping soundly in his "cave" in the entertainment center and watching the birds and the squirrels in the trees over the dog yard.

One day, Beau started hiding himself away. Dogs do that when they are ill, especially dogs who are preparing to die. I was selfish. I wanted Beau to live. I brought Beau to the vet to see if he could prolong his amazing life for me, just a little longer. Beau sat solemnly in my arms as the vet and I discussed getting him an IV to rehydrate him and to provide him with some additional nutrients. He wagged his body from head to tail as I handed him to the vet tech. He turned to me and gave me eager kisses as I made ready to go. The last sight I had of my Beau was his content expression as his vet tech friend (he was not unfamiliar with the staff there) waved his paw goodbye. He yipped and we both went through our respective doors.

I never saw my Beau alive again. Just hours after being placed in his own little kennel hidey-hole and having a light supper, he was gone. For the longest time, I felt terrible guilt over leaving him at his end. Over time, I've come to accept what other people have told me: Beau didn't want me there when he died. It hurts a little to accept that, but I think he chose to be away from me to spare us both the sorrow of his leaving. He had a chance to die peacefully, alone, with dignity. I had the chance to have that last memory of Beau be a beautiful one. It's a sad lesson, but one that it took an old dog to teach me. Thank you, Beau, for that lesson and for all the lessons you gave me in your spotless life.