An old dog -- no more tricks

Java is close to 15 years old. It kind of happened suddenly. Not really of course, the years accumulated linearly as they always do. It's just that one day he was frisky and mischievous, and the next he was having trouble standing. I had figured he'd live a few more years at least. Not that 15 isn't a ripe old age for a dog but he's not a particularly big dog and he's always been pretty healthy. Maybe it's been the steady diet of ground squirrels and the associated dirt ingested in digging them up. I don't know.

Last Saturday night, he asked to go out some time after midnight. Nothing unusual there. When he asked to come back in about an hour later (as usual), I noticed that he staggered a little coming through the door. I chalked it up to my maybe not opening the door enough and went back to bed. In the morning it was clear that something was wrong. His head was tilted to the side. His balance was shaky. When we went for a walk, he couldn't lift his leg. He tired quickly. His eyes were darting around. When balance is involved, I figure it could be an ear infection. I didn't think it was the case this time but I gave him some ear medicine anyway. What I think happened is he had a stroke. Now, I don't know if dogs get strokes but I suppose they do. Anyway, some sort of neurological event, I think that's likely if not clear.

Sunday afternoon he couldn't really get through a whole walk. He just lay down. I carried him for a while and then put him down. He walked/tottered home, slowly. I thought I was going to have to - you know - take him to the vet (and I don't mean take him to the vet but rather take him to the vet - you know what I mean?). Back in 1995, I had another 15 year old dog and I let her get too sick and too weak and too pathetic and it wasn't right and it was my fault she suffered and I didn't want to do that again. But I didn't want to pull that particular trigger too soon, either. It's a hard call. Every time it's a hard call.

But Monday, he seemed stronger. Not like before the event, whatever the event was, but improved over Sunday for sure. He still wobbled when he lifted his leg but he got the job done. He climbed up the deck stairs. He walked, slowly sometimes to be sure, the whole walk. His head still tilts. His eyes still wander in what seems to be an uncontrolled dysfunction. He still sleeps a lot. But I'm not ready to say his life is pointless, or too painful, or too pitiful. Or over. Not  yet at least. He's old, sure. So am I. But he's still happy to be out in the world, or so it seems to me, and I'm happy to let him be. But I don't think we'll be learning any new tricks.