EVER DECREASING WALKIES

As an example of shuffling off our mortal coil (or should that be mortal collie) it may seem kind of obvious but watching the ever decreasing distance of the walks my elderly dog can barely now manage has got me thinking it may be a perfect one.

At the height of his powers McKenny would disappear out of sight in a split second like Road Runner from the old Looney Tunes cartoons in stark contrast to now, where he has all but the snail pace of a late Beethoven String Quartet, his arthritic paws dragging on the ground like lead boots.

With every passing week, his walks get noticeably shorter while his stamina gets observably diminished. The other day, while out on a short walk with him, I saw he was struggling so badly with his back legs that I had no choice but to pick him up and carry him. Sitting on a nearby park bench as the surrounding beech trees created partial shade from the warm sun I cradled him in my arms like a furry baby. Then, as the strobing sunlight warmed his black and white coat I looked down at his one remaining eye (the other was destroyed after a clash with a Mastiff) and saw that it was filled with a single tear, not unlike those miraculous weeping Virgin Mary statues. Sort of helpless in a way and yet still fully sentient I thought I could feel the weight of his doggy suffering as he closed his one remaining eye and rested his head against my chest. I shut my eyes in solidarity with him and began to remember only too well his darting 0-90 toward blue horizons on vast green commons until he was nothing but a black speck and where only his ingrained collie conscience and canine loyalty brought him back without command. Times when he would run without abandon down steep valley slopes while myself and my daughter sledged through the snow as he used his paws for brakes like an expert BMX-er made me think his joints must be made of rubber so flexible did he seem back then. Throwing sticks high up in the air for what seemed like eternity similar to that ape in Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey' was always satisfying, knowing that McKenny would catch it in his mouth with all the confidence of a great fielder in cricket. Now he can barely see me in front of him let alone a stick.

As I opened my eyes again, I caught him yawning which somehow reassured me he was relaxed and ready to head home, oblivious to my existential angst about his state of decay. Returning him gently to the ground like a partly repaired bicycle and massaging his hind legs as if I was preparing an olympic athlete for a seminal sporting trial, McKenny resumed his lopsided trot, following just behind me, simply focused on four steps at a time.

The walks now shorter and shorter, his life grinding ever closer to its inevitable halt, I realised that once again, our dogs are surely our spiritual teachers. McKenny's resolute equanimity in working with what remaining sentience he has left yet consistently maintaining his daily practice of ritual (walk, food and sleep) despite his cruel limitations is a lesson that I believe we can all learn from. Watching him make the ascent up two half flights of stairs to the kitchen every morning for his chicken coated pill is truly inspirational and brings to mind a sort of canine equivalent of Everest with McKenny as the collie version of George Mallory.

It has been said that some collies suffer from what is known as shadow obsession where they become singularly focused with light patterns and reflections on the floor or on a wall. Well, it appears I suffer from collie shadow obsession in which I become obsessed with reflecting on my dog's mortality while I'm in his company. Sometimes as he lies slumped by the front door I can't quite tell if he's alive or dead, until I see the slow moving rise and fall of his tummy that acts as a defiant signal.

Though the heavenly dog basket in the sky may be gently calling to him more frequently these days, there's still some life left in this old boy yet.

WOOF!