Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog

The Old Yellow Dog turned 15 last week. He celebrated by lying on a fleece blanket under a shady tree in the front yard, listening to a little girl practice her reading skills. Her work started with the story of a child baking birthday treats for a golden retriever having a birthday. It ended with the child making no-bake dog treats and feeding several of them to the golden retriever having a birthday.

I honored the old boy with the purchase of four, almost color-coordinated rubber-backed throw rugs, strategically scattered around the ceramic tile to cover all the customary routes with traction only a pawstep away.

Zenga continues to show his age just a tiny bit more every day. His hips get a little looser, putting a little more wiggle in his walk, and his loss of hind-end muscle tone has added one more momentum-building practice swing to get up the step from garage to house.

The bark formerly reserved to demand a trip out or in, now sometimes means “Help me get up” or “Where is everybody?” or “What are you thinking, sitting down in that chair with a magazine?”

And, with increasing frequency, he barks rather fiercely at guests in our home, even if he’s known them all his life and even if they’ve been standing right there in the kitchen for 15 minutes.

But though he no longer shows interest in joining the greyhound and me on our morning walk, he continues to complete his own daily circuit around the yard. And if I happen to catch him at just the right spot, his aging eyes light up and his face reflects the youthful delight of that little yellow puppy with the green ear tattoo I met at the airport in 1996. Then he will pivot (reality check – I have to help lift those heavy hips back to vertical) and trot and hop and bounce up the lawn with all the energy he’s got, fully convinced that he is SomeBody.

Then he spends a several minutes lying on the cool ceramic trying to catch his breath, closely resembling his owner just after she completes her Cardio Pilates workout.

But soon he falls asleep, snoring contentedly, his back secured against the entry wall, his feet within toe-touch distance of the blue-striped rug. And all is well.

Happy Birthday Huizenga.