We have an old dog. Sixteen years old. Refuses to die.
Not that I’m rooting for her to climb the stairs to puppy
paradise. I have a heart. Apparently, she has a very good one, too. She’s a little shih-tzu we’ve had longer than two of our
teenage children. Her name is Cocoa, because, when we named her as a puppy, she
was brownish. Now she’s pretty much just white.
She seems to hate everything about
life, except a soft spot to lie down and hot dogs. She can’t see, can’t hear,
can’t navigate stairs, can’t jump on or off couches, and can’t hold her water.
She hates baths, haircuts, eye drops, fresh breath, dog food, hard wood floors,
clean-smelling carpets, walks, and any attempts to pet her.
She pretty much sleeps most of the time, except when she
wants something. Then she barks incessantly until someone comes (ahem, usually
me, even though there are others living in this house), picks her up, and
transports her to one of three places. The food bowl, outside, or the couch.
That’s all she wants – one of those three things. Actually, that’s not true.
The outside thing is what we want. She could care less whether she’s inside or
outside. Makes no difference to her. It’s wishful thinking on our part.
She wasn’t always like this, of course. I remember the good
old days when she used to dart out the front door and go poop in the neighbor’s
yard, much to their dismay. Or when she used to eat holes in the wall, chew the
furniture, or steal our dirty underwear and hide with it under the couch – for what
purpose I tried not to imagine. Good times, nonetheless. Ah, but those days are
gone.
Christy says Cocoa is only middle-aged. Normally, I’d laugh
at that sort of optimism. But Christy also used to pray that her kids wouldn’t
grow up. And they’re all under six feet, so she got that wish.
Right now, Cocoa is barking and walking in circles around
the dining room table. One of her daily rituals. If I have to put up with
sixteen more years of this, I expect I’ll be joining her soon enough. Then I
can only hope that when we’re both mumbling and walking in circles around the
dining room table, that someone comes and guides us both to a nice soft easy
chair, throws her a hot dog, and hands me a Dr. Pepper, then lets us sleep for
the next twelve hours.
Given the kids track record on responding to Cocoa’s barks,
I’m very worried how they’ll respond to my mumblings. I’d better start looking
into old folks’ homes.
Preferably one that will take an old white dog, too.
