On Old Dogs

A post from author (and guest-blogger) D.B. Grady:

On Old Dogs.

In dog years, my Margaret is well into her sixties, and sometimes looks every day of it. She’s a mixed breed. She’s got arthritis, and when the weather changes, hobbles along stoically, though clearly in pain. Last year, she took to hiding behind furniture on the really bad days. I assume this is an evolutionary defense mechanism. Medicines help, and though I’ve heard of dogs living into their twenties, I can’t look at her without the sorrowful suspicion that there are fewer days ahead than there are behind.

We’ve been through a lot together. I got her when she was a puppy. A friend called and said, “There’s a stray living under my porch. She’s in bad shape. Do you want her?”

“Yes.”

This was 2002. I was a college student. The first night, she was terrified. Malnourished. Flea-bitten. Her puppy face, mangled from skirmishes on the street. She slept as close to the back wall of the crate I’d bought her as she she could get. I tried walking her for two days, and for two days, she wouldn’t accomodate. After an Internet search, I was convinced she had a horrible urinary disease. We made a trip to the vet emergency room, where, I was to learn, she was just fine. But since I was there, they gave her shots, and medicine, and treated her wounds. We set up an appointment for her to be spayed.

I also learned that in spite of two days of cowering in terror of me, and of the world, she trusted me.

She hated the doctors. She growled and snarled and barked madly — rabidly — at them. I held her, and she relaxed. The vets could do their job.

She understood the concept of house training from the beginning. She also understood that I slept lightly and would do her bidding. So at two o’clock in the morning, if she whimpered, we went outside, rain, sleet, or snow. Literally. She was my best preparation for parenthood. Sometimes we’d go outside at the midnight hour, during thunderstorms, and she’d sniff around. Check things out. And we’d go back in. “Just checking, daddy.”

I don’t know what science says, but I can tell you that dogs dream. Or at least Margaret does. Because she used to have the worst nightmares. She’d cry and howl in her sleep. She’s come a long way from that, but I remember.

She’s had medical malady after malady. A couple of years after I got her, I noticed I’d walk her, she’d do very little, and then have an accident when we got inside. At first I scolded her. Then her urine turned red, like merlot.

Her bladder had — and I don’t know the exact details — developed some kind of mineral rock that literally filled it.

The vet presented a bill for an operation with one zero too many on the end. It was presented almost as a death warrant. But that wasn’t even a consideration. I’d have sold a kidney, but settled for maxing out a credit card. Even the vet was surprised. Mastercard was delighted.

Together, Margaret and I have lived in seven apartments and houses. We’ve been separated by a war. We’ve been through a lot of friends. Marriage. A baby. We’ve walked thousands of miles together. Even as I type this, she’s asleep at my feet. She’s my oldest friend.

In 2007 (it feels like yesterday), I enrolled her in obedience school. (Taught by Baton Rouge legend Dick Russell, one of the best dog trainers in the world.) Every day for weeks, we practiced navigating cones, sitting, staying, lying down, heeling, and paper plate recalling.

In a class of twenty or so, Margaret was by far the oldest dog, and had no experience with other dogs, and little experience with other people. As Mr. Russell said, “Your dog probably didn’t realize there were this many other dogs in the world.“

On graduation night there was held a much-anticipated recall race. Talladega Speedway had nothing on the parking lot at Interstate Battery on Airline Highway where we trained. As mentioned, one of the exercises we practiced was called Paper Plate Recall, wherein the owner tells the dog to sit-stay, and then walks out to set a hot dog treat on a paper plate. After waiting a minute or two, the owner returns to the dog, pets him or her, and says “Away.” The dog then runs to the plate to get the treat, and returns.

It sounds easy, but takes a lot of practice. And Margaret is easily distracted. “Ohboyohboy I get a treat I can’t wait I love hot dogs–HEY!! A butterfly!” and so on.

We practiced 10 times a day, with waiting times between 1 minute and 4 minutes, for weeks.

The Recall Race was held between all dogs. Two dogs raced at once. The rules were simple: they started at the same time, and the first one back wins. Single elimination until the final round. Lose a race, and you’re out. If a dog gets into a scuffle with another dog, or a person, or if the dog eats the other dog’s treat, they’re out.

During the first round, I was surprised by how fast some of the dogs were. Then Margaret was up.

Sit. Stay. I brought out the treat, came back. The teacher said “Go!” and I told Margaret “Away!”

She looked at me kind of funny, and I waved her on. “AWAY!” She trotted out to the plate and ate her little hot dog. And then she saw the hot dog on the other dog’s plate. “NO!” I cried, and so she ambled back to me.

The other dog, meanwhile, had no idea what to do, and never left the starting line.

Margaret for the win.

After the first round, the winners paired off. Margaret was matched with a fast little dog. I knew we’d race him sooner or later, and was kind of dispirited, because it was clear they practiced.

The teacher said “GO!” and Margaret, warmed up now, jogged out to her plate. The other dog hesitated, before bolting forward.

Margaret ate her hot dog treat — and turned to eat the other dog’s — but after seeing that it was already gone, jogged back to me.

After eating his treat, the other dog lingered a moment to lick his plate clean.

Margaret in an upset victory.

Next were the finals. Three dogs remained. They would race each other, which meant if a dog won both races, it would be crowned winner.

Margaret was up first, against the fastest dog there. This animal — I’m not sure it was all dog — part cheetah, part greyhound. The owner looked confident. He smirked.

“GO!”

I told Margaret, “Away!” as though I were issuing some royal edict. And she jogged out there, in no hurry, ate her hot dog, and came right back.

The other dog, meanwhile, looked at his owner for a minute before running out — a crucial hesitation.

And Margaret inexplicably found herself in the final matchup The Main Event. The Super Bowl. The Heavyweight Championships.

Her opponent wasn’t the fastest, but definitely knew the game, and like Margaret, was consistent.

“GO!”

“Away!”

Both dogs took off. Both ate their treats. Both bolted back.

And it was Margaret by a nose.

Margaret, humble Margaret, churlish Margaret, aged and innocent Margaret. A modest dog. But on the night of September 25, 2007, the dog champion of Baton Rouge. If she were the dedicating type, or could talk, she’d have offered her victory to all the Old Dogs out there who were told they could never learn new tricks.

But she didn’t need to win. My pride and love for her isn’t measurable by a plaque. (Though it looks really nice on my wall.)

Margaret is asleep right now, snoring lightly. I try not to think of a world without her. My faithful companion. My dear friend.

My good dog.

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D.B. Grady is the author of Red Planet Noir.
He can be found on the web at http://www.dbgrady.com.

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