Minnie, my 14-year-old Pointer/Australian Shepard mix, suddenly turned old. I went to Venice for a week. When I came back, she was old. Stiff. Still willing, but lacking her usual energy. Even her appetite has changed from ravenous, wolfing down her food to slow, picky, wanting to be fed by hand.
All is normal in the health department when she had her usual six-month checkup this week (which, along with one for her brother and worming and flea meds cost $800). But she’s old now. She has outlived her mother, as has her 12-year-old half-brother, Simba.
As I contemplate her sliding downhill, it’s hard to not look inward, too. I’m 70. She’s a bit older, but not much. How much time is there? When she goes, I will be sad. And I will get another dog so Simba and I have company. Until then, I will look into Minnie’s eyes, stroke her, and slow down her decline any way I can. It’s what you do for a friend.
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