A Cause for Concern

The DevilDog is getting old.

Shock horror, I hear you cry. Surely the DevilDog is youth personified (or should that be dogified)? The DevilDog is a force of nature, sweeping through the land like the equinoctial gales that lead to so much wind waspiness.* The DevilDog was born to run, and run, and run. And then to run some more, possibly being kind to small animals** on the way. The DevilDog cannot be stopped. You'd as well try to stop the tide from coming in.***

And yet the DevilDog has slowed almost to the point of stopping, and he's done it to himself.

It goes back to this time last year, when he went missing. That time the badger nearly won, and he spent a whole day and half the night trying to dig himself out of a collapsed set. At the time he looked a bit of a mess, and the hair on his nose has never grown back properly, but we all thought he would shrug the whole event off without much problem. Instead he began to get stiff and sore after a particularly hard day's charity. His back legs took on the appearance of a Queen Anne chair, and his front legs began to cross over as he walked. Latterly he's even begun falling over his feet onto his face, which hardly conjures up the image of a well-hard Patterdale Terrier.

The truth is, he's succumbing fast to very bad arthritis. He's on the latest drugs, as well as enough glucosamine a day to make an elephant light-footed. My mother bought him a magnetic collar, which he suffers with a proud dignity even though he's a dog who's never worn a collar in his life before, except on those few occasions when society's ignorance required him to be on a lead (leash). I'm not convinced it does anything for him at all, but I'll keep trying.

And now it's getting to the point where I really hate taking him for walks. He still wants to come, but it's painful enough to watch, let alone what he must be feeling himself. He tries to trot a bit, then slows to a pace that would try the patience of a snail, then stops. After a few minutes of gazing pop-eyed into space, he springs back into action. And promptly falls over his feet onto his face again.

This winter weather doesn't help when your bones creak and your joints ache. The snow was a hard time, though at least he didn't hurt himself falling over. And the poor SausageDog doesn't understand why we can't go for long walks anymore (or why his food has been cut down.)

Now I know that all dogs get old, slow down, start to smell bad. But the DevilDog's only eleven this year - and not for another couple of months. That's hardly trying for a terrier, even one who's led a full and active life. It hardly seems fair that Chiswick, who's going to be thirteen this year, is still going strong (and irritating as ever), and poor Mortimer is in his dotage.

I shall have to consult our friendly local vet to see if there's anything more we can do, but I fear we are already at the end of an era. Once around Cae Newydd**** will have to be stroll enough, and the DevilDog will have to learn that he stays behind when the Dachshund and I head off into the hills.

But there's something wrong about going for a walk with just one dog.

*you know, that irritation and short temper you get when the wind's been blowing from the west for days, never letting up, always filling the air with a low moaning that slowly, surely, grinds down your reserve until there's nothing left and you snap. That's wind waspiness - a term invented by my mother.
** as in a short, crunchy, squeaky type of kindness.
***try this at high tide. It's much more effective.
**** the prosaically named 'new field' that lies at the back of the house.