"Yeah, Her!" Life With An Aging Dog

(Messed-Up But Managing #13)

I got Daisy during a Saturday morning adopt-a-pet segment on the news. You know the kind, the one where the local news anchor holds up an adorable shelter dog wearing a red bandana, pretending it’s not peeing on her dress. Daisy had that cute little triangle of fabric around her neck and a face that said, “I’m young but I’ve seen things, and I’m still hopeful.” And that was all it took.

My wife was asleep from a night shift at the hospital. So, naturally, I made a major life decision without her. That was the first time. I’ve now acquired two dogs in our marriage, both while my wife was catching zees from a night of giving medical care. That’s kind of my signature move, lol. Some people impulse-buy on Amazon but me? I impulse-adopt mammals.

Daisy has been with us for 17 (human) years. At 17, she’s technically 112 in dog years, which explains why she’s now part grumpy old woman and part haunted Victorian doll. She still spins when she’s excited, but it’s more of a slow-motion pivot now. She looks like a Roomba that’s old enough to frequently short-circuit.

Her hearing is basically gone. Her eyesight is worse. Her balance is like a toddler on rollerblades or me on a skateboard. When she jumps off the couch, it looks like a crime scene unfolding in slow motion. You ever see a baked potato roll off a counter? Meet: Daisy.

We took her to the beach last month. I thought it’d be a sweet memory. She hadn’t been in a while. Bad idea. She walked into the water, dunked her entire head beneath the waves, and just left it there. It was like she was trying to baptize herself into a better life. We panicked. She emerged coughing, snorted for an hour, started spitting up phlegm, and then immediately went into shaking mode. It was awful. But it passed.

She’s never been the smartest dog. (I hate writing that but know she’ll never read this. And if she could, she wouldn’t.) She runs into walls. She forgets where she’s going. But she has mastered one skill: stiff walking. That’s right, she’s developed this bizarre sneak move where she stiffens her back legs like she’s dead, then quietly slides toward her sister dog’s bowl with zero body movement hoping to pull off a kibble robbery. It’s just inch-by-inch stiff steps. It’s sweet and funny.

Daisy’s become unpleasant at night though. I sit too close to her in the chair we share and she growls. She doesn’t want affection, like at all. She wants a full food bowl, a recliner to herself, and absolute silence. She has become like a cat. A very easily bothered, lumpy, elderly cat. But there is one thing, besides food, that she seems to enjoy: wearing her teal sweater. We picked it up from the baby section in the grocery store. Best move ever. She loves it.

And, of course, these days Daisy smells a little weird. She farts often. Her breath could knock out a large bird. Her ears get very ripe. But I still melt when I see her half-sleeping, one ear flipped inside-out, looking like a cross between a gremlin and an unwashed slipper. She’s been here through a lot. 17 years she’s hung with us. Kids. Moves. Jobs. She’s the only living entity in our house who has never tried to download social media. Good for her!

I know our time with Daisy is limited. Every time she sneezes too hard, I get nervous. Every time she slips off the couch, I think, “This could be it.” But somehow, she rallies. Daisy is still here. Still waddling around. Still trying to steal some dog food. Still grumbling at night.

She’s my girl. My weird, wheezing, sleep-farting old girl. And when the time comes, I’ll probably be an emotional disaster. But for now, I just feel lucky. Lucky that 17 years ago, I saw a dog on TV with a red bandana and thought, “Yeah, her!”