By Peter McKay

Our old West Highland Terrier Harry is getting more decrepit by the minute.  We don’t know his exact age, and there’s a running dispute in our house over how old he actually is.  We got Harry from a shelter about six years ago, and at that time, the lady at the shelter told us his age, which my wife and I remember hearing differently.  (My wife, always the optimist, hoping for a long relationship, insisted the shelter lady said he was nine at the time.  Me, well…me being me, I was sure she said Harry was eleven.  Maybe twelve.)

Harry was never much of a fun dog, spending most of his energy begging for food, following my wife around the house, and snubbing the rest of us.  But every once in a while, you could creep up on him on all fours, snarl at him, and he’d jump into a crouch, ready to take pretend snaps at your hands.  We was also kind of fun to chase after.  I’d yell “I’m going to get you Harry!” in a deep, evil voice, and run after him.  He’d skitter around the house, running in circles and hiding under tables.  This sounds like pet abuse, but Harry knew it was a game, sometimes initiating the chase himself by running up and hopping up and down. (Wow, I guess this is kind of late to consider this, but I sincerely hope he knew it was a game.)

This year, though, Harry has started to age at a rate that makes it clear that I’m probably the winner in the age debate.  He’s now completely deaf, partially blind, and almost totally immobile.  It started in the Spring, when Harry stopped running anywhere, even after a bath.  And for years Harry, one of the world’s oldest babies, used to get all scared at night, crawl upstairs, whine at the kids’ bedrooms, and pee on the floor.  Now, he just sits at the bottom of the steps and pees in the front hall and then goes back to sleep.  When we leave the house, the stumbles over to the front door and lays his back against it, as that’s the only way a deaf dog knows his master’s come home.  He’s gotten caught under the door a number of times.

And with the Summer heat, Harry’s confined his activities to wandering from one spot to another, flopping down, and falling on his side, like he’s been shot by an invisible, silent gun.  Some days he sleeps right in front of his food bowl, just to save the commuting time. 

The other day, Sophie, the dog next door, came to our door.  Sophie, maybe two years old, is one of those small bundles of fur that cost a lot of money, wriggle around a lot, and moves so quickly and crazily it’s hard to tell whether you’re looking at a dog or a dustball caught in the wind.  Every once in a while, Sophie gets loose and comes to our door and stands there, twitching and shaking.  I’m never sure whether Sophie wants to visit Harry or whether she’s terrified to be outside alone and is looking for any kind of shelter she can get.  Sophie could be picked up and carried off by a nice-sized robin.  But Harry has never really appreciated the visits too much, most often trying to run Sophie off.  Just the same way as he doesn’t like most people, he could do without most other dogs.

This time Harry was spread out in our front hall, doing his best impression of a not very impressive sheep-skin rug.  After watching Sophie hop up and down, I thought it might be interesting to see whether her presence could liven Harry up.  I opened the screen and let Sophie skittle in.

Sophie jumped through the door, saw (or maybe smelled) Harry, and stopped dead in her tracks.  She slowly edged up to Harry’s motionless body, sniffing.  Then she made one or two circles, trying to examine Harry from different angles.  She was clearly unnerved.  Finally, she stopped looked up at me, and gave me a sad kind of look, as if to say, “Hey, did you know your dog is dead?” Then she ran off.

I glanced down at Harry in alarm.  His chest was still moving up and down.  Slowly -- but moving.

“Hey, Sophie!” I get back here!,” I yelled.  “Don’t count Harry out yet!”  Sophie stopped and stared at me.  I reached over and nudged Harry with my foot.  He looked up, groggily, and flopped his head down again.  A second later, he was asleep again.

“Never mind, Sophie,” I said. “You win.”

Copyright © 2010 -- Peter McKay