I’m not a huge fan of Christie Blatchford at the Globe and Mail. She’s a little … shrill about most things. But although some readers hate it when she writes about her dog, these are probably my favourite articles of hers. Saturday’s article, in particular, hit a nerve.
As my dogs get older, there’s not a day that goes by that I am not thankful for their continued existence. The vet once told us that we’d be lucky if Bowie made it to 10 years, because of his size, but we’re currently working on 11.
But they’re both slowing down. They don’t want to run and play as much as they once did. They often don’t have the patience to be petted and mauled. And when either dog gets injured or ill, or even sometimes when I walk past and look at them sleeping, I have to shake the fear, nay – the sheer dread, of the inevitable out of my head.
When they’re gone…
No. Stop it. Not gonna happen. Never.
But it will. And somehow we’ll deal. Hopefully.
In the meantime, I make a point of enjoying every minute with them. Even if all they’re doing is sleeping; sprawled out on the floor, feet twitching, eyes rolling under their soft eyelids, barking at imaginary squirrels, chasing imaginary balls, nomming imaginary snacks.
People say it’s impossible for a dog owner to claim to love their dog as much as a parent loves a child. Those people are idiots.