By 
Over the past few months I’ve noticed that Waffle often requires a little extra encouragement when it comes to everyday life.
Now, I’m not talking about ‘right foot encouragement’ if Waffle happened to be harassing the hens or crapping on the back porch.
I mentioned this before but increasingly, Waffle is less-inclined to come out with me in the mornings when I’m feeding said hens or as we would call it, ‘doing the things’.
I can’t help but wonder if, at the ripe old age of six, is he already slowing down?
In dog years, he’s approximately 42, although I would have thought there should be plenty of life left in the old hound yet – before he goes to the big back-end-sniffing contest in the sky.
Most mornings now, Waffle simply will not deign to come outdoors, no matter how much cajoling or threatening I do. Does this mean he doesn’t need to visit his doggie lavatory? Or is he touching on the far side of middle age, is tired and can’t be bothered? Unlike myself, there is nary a grey hair on his hairy head and his eyes betray nothing remotely resembling old age. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that he is not entirely himself.
I am reminded of a story a man once told me about the time he said goodbye to his old sheepdog. The big Collie had been a resident on the farm for over a decade but in his later years had deteriorated physically and by the end, his mobility was shot. Eventually, the vit (as he is known in rural areas) was summoned to the homestead to administer the injection.
“The number of times I kicked that dog up the arse after stepping in his muck,” the man said. “But when he died, I cried like a wean.”
He went on, “I went into the house and thought I’d try and bring myself around with a drink – but that only made me worse!”
I am further reminded of a chat I had with a local priest some time ago, who told me about a Labrador he’d had two decades previously.
“It’s 20 years ago now and there’s not a day goes by when I don’t think of that dog,” he said.
And I believe him.
The reality is, unless you’re some kind of digi-hearted robot, the pets we bring into our homes leave an indelible mark. In the greater scheme of things, their lives are short, much more fleeting than we would like.
Neither the man nor the priest has since adopted another dog and honestly, I don’t know if I could either. Or could I?
A friend recently sent me the following in a text message. I don’t know where it came from but certainly, it made me think.
“Before humans die, they write their last Will and Testament, give their home and all they have, to those they leave behind. If, with my paws, I could do the same, this is what I’d ask…
“To a poor and lonely stray, I’d give my happy home – my bowl and cosy bed, soft pillows and all my toys. The lap, which I loved so much, the tender, loving touch; the hand that stroked my fur and sweet voice which called my name, I’d will to the sad, scared shelter dog; that place I had in my human’s loving heart of which there seemed no bounds.
“So, when I die, please do not say, ‘I will never have a pet again, for the loss and pain is more than I can stand’. Instead, go find an unloved dog, one whose life has held no joy or hope, and give my place to him.
“This is the only thing that I can give… The love I left behind.”
