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Ground Zero
I have an eleven-year-old dog. He's not a huge dog, but by most standards he would be considered large. Large, and strong enough, that I still don't trust my ten-year-old son to walk him safely. Eleven is a milestone for me, because this is the oldest any dog of mine has ever lived. Our Portugese Water Dog, Sam, had a heart attack at ten years old. Our Yellow Lab was ten when he had a fatal stroke. Our Blue Heeler was ten when we made the hard decision to euthanize him once his cancer became too painful. Having an eleven-year-old dog is kind of surreal in this context. For over a year, I have felt lucky for this extra time with him, but also braced myself for the inevitable.
His name is Zero. As far as we can tell, he is a Husky/Pit mix. My wife (Margie) and I have had him since he was old enough to leave his mom. He's had his share of health concerns, but his behavioral tics have been the largest impact on his life. Between his first and second birthdays, he began showing aggressive tendencies toward other dogs. This made exercise and play much harder to plan, since daycares and dog parks became dog fights waiting to happen. This is how I discovered agility training, and how we began a nearly ten year love affair with the sport.
From Zero to Hero
When I think about how healthy Zero has remained, and how he broke the ten year precedent my previous dogs had set, I credit agility with keeping him young. Our home lives are chaotic; changing work schedules and two children in school means Zero is home alone a lot of his life. It would be very easy for that to be almost all of his life. Our commitment to agility broke that monotony. It gave him something to be excited about; something to actually think about.
In his old age, he has developed fatty tumors. The vets are not concerned about them, but they are a constant reminder to me of his mortality. For the past couple years, I keep expecting to find out that one of them is not what it seems; that it is slowly killing him. I've come to accept this inevitability. I've spoken to my Margie, and we agree that we won't put him through chemotherapy, should it come to that. He won't understand why, and even though he loves to give the vets kisses, he stresses out just from walking in the door. He stress-sheds so much they could make a new dog from the fur he leaves. Chemo would not be fair to him. We would let him live as long as we could, but not let him suffer. How surprised I was, then , that it wasn't his lumps, but agility that was his downfall.
Zero Hour
During a routine course, with nothing unusually strenuous, he cried out in pain and lifted his left hind leg. We were in class, but this injury could have happened anywhere. He was not jumping, landing, or turning when it happened. He was running straight, running toward a tunnel (his favorite obstacle) and trying to accelerate when it happened. We found out for sure the next day at the vet that he had torn his ACL.
No matter what you think you prepare yourself for, life is always ready to surprise you. I was ready for something life-threatening. What I was not ready for was something excruciatingly painful and life-altering, but not fatal. Seeing him in confused pain made my heart sink and my head spin.This was nothing like deciding whether of not to do chemo. He had so much life left in him, but that life would be full of pain if we didn't take care of this, and soon. The longer he uses his right hind leg to compensate for his useless left leg, the more likely that he will lose that knee as well.
Patient Zero
Fortunately, despite his age, he was very healthy otherwise and was considered a good candidate for the surgery. One x-ray, one bloodwork test, two pill bottles, two walking-assistance harnesses, one week and two days later, zero finally met with a vet who could do his surgery. After several hours in their care, he came out of anesthesia and was brought home with a big Frankenstein scar on his knee, two more prescriptions, and a giant cone of shame. The next day he was feeling sharp pain whenever he tried to use the leg, but that seemed to subside after one more night. His stitches itch, but he always listens when we tell him not to lick them. He has adjusted to wearing his assistance harness extremely easily so that we can help him up and down our five stairs. He loves eating his pills and gives a sad, resigned stare at my eyes whenever I have to put his cone on.
Today was his five-day checkup. We saw the vet, and apparently Zero is healing right on schedule. He tries to use the leg more and more, with less obvious discomfort. The stitches are healing well, and we just made an appointment to get them removed next week.
Absolute Zero
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, Zero was acting like a puppy. He ran to the living room to find his current favorite chew toy (a water buffalo horn) and ran back to our bedroom with it. He was so full of energy, I was worried he would try to jump on to our bed. "Take it easy! You're not ready for that!" I told him. He hopped in a circle, moving both back legs in unison in order to put as little pressure on his left foot as possible. He eventually lay down and began aggressively chewing on the horn. Watching him chew with renewed vigor, I turned to Margie. "I know we've prepared ourselves for the worst with him. But look at him. Look at how quickly he's recovering. He's going to live to be f------ eighteen!"
