Getting Old with Theo

Theo is my Dog

When we adopted him, Theo was only four months old. I think we got him through a bait-and-switch: the website of the shelter in Northern Westchester offered a young golden retriever, but when we arrived, she was already gone. So we looked at the other dogs and decided on a gentle, friendly dog who looked a little like a fox. Theo was shipped to New York from the south, and dogs who look like him (short, pointy snout, short, golden fur) are called Carolina dogs.

Developmentally, a dog of four months is like a kindergartner, playful, curious, eager for fun—and fully house-trained. I supposed he’d been scooped from the street, but Theo didn’t seem anxious or angry or shy. And he bonded to us quickly, perhaps because he was so young. Theo is our fourth dog and the only one who never runs away when he slips out the back door (he stays near the house) or when we take him off leash in the park (he walks or runs by our side).

I loved to watch him at the dog park—Theo, the life of the party! He’d see three senior dogs sitting serenely on a hill and he’d run over to them, sniffing and frisking—until they finally got up to play with him. Such bold insouciance! Such insistence on having fun. It made up for the fact that he disdained balls and frisbees and was havoc on the bedding, reducing comforters to shredded fabric and feathers. (We use only blankets now.) When we got him a dog bed, he destroyed it within hours.

A dog’s life is tragically compressed compared to ours. A dog of Theo’s weight (48 pounds) typically lives 12-14 years, although Carolina dogs are exceptionally hardy and can live to be 16. Trying to compare their lives to ours leads to the concept of “dog years”: roughly speaking, one calendar year is the equivalent of seven dog years, although there are more precise ways of calculating the life-span of different breeds.

Theo is thirteen-and-a-half years old now, a senior dog himself and slowing down. He’s anywhere between 85 and 95 in dog years. The hair on his face has turned white, and he doesn’t see or hear very well any more. Sometimes he goes stock still, seemingly confused. He is more affectionate than he’s ever been, lying against my husband in the bed. (When I come in, he shakes himself and leaves, not wanting me to jostle his old bones.)

I came across a checklist:

How to Support a Frail Senior Dog

• Keep floors nonslip (yoga mats or carpet runners).

• Elevate food and water dishes slightly.

• Offer small meals more often.

• Provide gentle massages and soft bedding.

• Keep routines predictable; sudden changes increase confusion.

• If pain or disorientation increase, your vet can suggest pain relief, anti-anxiety medication, or cognitive support (like selegiline or SAM-e).

It occurred to me that except for the second bullet point, these were all ways to support a senior person! So I began comparing myself to Theo.

My hair, too, was losing its color. My hearing, too, was getting worse. Sudden changes (in my iPhone or anything else) did indeed increase confusion. I needed gentle touching more than ever.

I was on the same trajectory as my dog, though his life was moving faster than mine. Sometimes coming down the stairs, he skitter-falls to the landing. I myself am careful to run my hand along the bannister.

Am I, too, less playful than I used to be? Less sociable? Less tolerant of young upstarts?

I notice that Theo is aging in steps, rather than gradually. One day last month, he would not run up the hill and sniffed at anything low to avoid running He’s never run up that hill again. I find I, too, am aging in steps, especially regarding my face. Overnight, there will be something new—then no more changes for many months.

The saying “it’s a dog’s life” means a miserable and unhappy life, but a pet dog in America is likely to live a pampered existence. Coddled, well-fed, protected from the weather and inoculated against disease, a domestic dog outlives his wild counterpart by a factor of two or three. Dogs in the wild live only three to six years.

In Theo’s decline, I love him more than ever. I stroke his body and admire his virtues. I no longer make him work for his treats.

In my own decline, whenever it may be (with luck, 100+!), I hope to be similarly loved and petted and admired. And I hope they won’t make me work for my treats.