A Tap on the Shoulder

A gentle nudge.

A little wake up call.

It was an eye opener. This might sound ludicrous to you, dear readers, but I was unprepared for the Very Old Dog's Very Bad Day. "Oh baloney," as opposed to bologna, you say. I've written how many pieces on this blog (you can check them out here) about Giacomino's and Maria's advancing ages, always recognizing that every day is a gift. Hug your hounds, I say.

But, the Very Old Dogs and I have fallen into a comfortable, predictable routine. (I didn't even think to include Maria in the VOD category, and her thirteenth birthday is Thursday. Thirteen.) Giacomino waits at the top and the bottom of the stairs for my assistance. Maria barks to be covered up. Her back legs tremble when we stop to chat with neighbors on our walks; his back feet drag on the sidewalk after we get going again. They are not what they used to be, but they have been what they are for a while now.

We laugh. I ask Maria, "What does a cheerleader say?" She gets a sparkle in her eyes, and dances around, winding herself up and lets loose with a perfect, "Rah, rah, rah!" Unless, of course, we are performing the trick in front of guests, in which case she answers, "Arf. Arf. Arf, arf, arrrr-roooo." And then she winks at me, and when the conversation has turned elsewhere, under her breath she whispers, "rah, rah, rah."

And on our walks, Giacomino shows his exuberance in the form of modified leapies. When he was young he had the most delightful habit of leaping straight in the air, off all four feet with legs pogo stick straight, *boing* up as high as my five foot five inch head. Staying perfectly parallel with the ground. A capriole. This did not involve the slightest pull on his lead. One moment he was walking along in front of me, and the next moment his butt was eye level. It was usually accompanied by sort of war woop, "wooahrarrr!" And it was saved for special times. The first warm, sunny day after a long gray cold spell. Exiting the van and finding himself at a Lure Trial. A walk with a special visiting friend. Nowadays he does the modified leapy. It's frankly more of a lurch than a leap, and I always gasp in fear that he'll fall splat, because he has, but even so these modified leapies make me smile all the way from my fuzzy socks to the pompom on my hat. And I'm toasty warm all of a sudden.

On the day that Giacomino wasn't himself, not even his older version, I sputtered. He was vulnerable, and so mortal. I had settled in to the Very Old Dog reality show as though it were an over sized down comforter wrapped around me. I had forgotten. The privilege of loving these souls comes with a price. And when my sweet Old Dog gently reminded me that part of the deal was to go on without him at some point, I wanted to negotiate a new contract.

Maria's self-assigned life's work has been to create laughter. Trotting around shaking the bejesus out of a squeak toy or back talking woo-woos when you point an accusing finger at her, and then play bows with wagging dances when she hears the laugh she was after. And Giacomino, even as a starved rescued puppy was so concerned about his humans. He couldn't bear human sadness, cocking his head and drawing up his eyebrows until his forehead was raked with wrinkles. Three times Giacomino cried tears from his eyes. When we were mourning Bill's dad. When I moved away from my friends. And when my first whippet died. When I was overcome with sadness, so was he, and that snapped me out of it.

So I've had a gentle warning. An overheard whisper of what will come. A chance to brace myself, to steady my steps. To laugh louder for Maria, and to shout "woo-HOOOO" right out there in public at the top of my lungs for each modified leapy Giacomino attempts. To dawdle a bit more during the geriatric amble around the block and let them go ahead and bark at the Stupid City Squirrels. To sneak a lot more people food from my plate to certain waiting lips.

It is, after all, my very special privilege.

Hug your hounds.