We have two dogs – well, one almost-a-dog (Cassie the Shih Tzu) and one moosedawg (Buddy the 100-pound, half German Shepherd, half moose, bark-o-holic). Both are 77.
Like most septuagenarians, they have health issues.
Cassie, bless her heart, has crappy skin and has scratched and scratched since we inherited her 9 years ago (note: ALWAYS look a gift dog in the mouth). She has “wonky hips”. And, like most in her ex-optholmic breed, her buggy eyes are always a problem – she’s going blind.
The ever-happy moosedawg (who is actually half Huntaway, a New Zealand stock dog bred to bark at sheep) has a huge growth on his keel. Like a tennis ball. The long-distance medical prognosis from a vet friend in the U.S. is “ugly and probably not harmful”, but not safe to be whacked off at home by the family’s medical professionals. Not going to pay the vet a thousand dollars to remove it from a 77- year-old dog. Figure I’ll mount a fifth wheel on the growth if it gets much bigger.
But the point is this. These dogs have many health issues but they are happy. Really happy. Always. They don’t complain. All they want to do is be with their pack. Taking a walk. Going for a ride. Getting a plate full of dog food. Reclining on the porch in the sun. Or racing around like a deranged beast after a bath. It’s all BEEG fun.
At 54 myself, next week, I’m now willing to pay more attention to nature and to learn about the simple pleasures of life. Believe I’ll go lie in the sun with my pack.