Yesterday, 8 days after his 15th birthday, I said goodbye to Zenga. I believe he had a stroke or strokes during the night as he was able to stay on his feet for only a matter of seconds, and when he did walk, it was in large erratic circles. He was possibly in pain, probably confused and definitely uncomfortable. When he refused his breakfast, complete with the last of the birthday cookie dough mixed in, the message was clear.

Born to be a Canine Companions for Independence assistance dog, Huizenga was named after a contributor to the organization, but responded to many nicknames in his 15 years. Among them: Z, Zenga, Zinger, Zinga, BaZinga, Paleface, Poochers, Little Yellow Dog, Old Yellow Dog, and He Who Hears Voices.

Zenga didn’t make the cut at CCI because he couldn’t tolerate the feel of wearing the gear necessary to identify him as an official service dog. His release was pretty much a given at the ceremony in which the incoming class of dogs was introduced, where he hopped up the aisle on three legs when his name was called because he was using the fourth leg to feverishly scratch at his “Puppy in Training” cape.

But his tactile sensitivity didn’t keep him from working for many years as a registered therapy dog. Oddly enough, he would endure overzealous petting and clumsy embraces but drew the line at retrieving anything. I guess it’s all about the compromise.

In the end, he earned his keep by lying on a fleecy blanket, listening to children read, admittedly, a job made more enticing by the treats distributed at the end, but one in which he willingly participated. My biggest concern was that while I could rationalize Z’s snoozing to a young reader as “he’s picturing the story as you read it” I had no credible story should he lapse into the deep slumber of his later years, which came complete with a very obvious snore.

I will miss him. I will miss the raspy pant that marked an exciting event, and the quiet that marked its subsidence. I will miss the contortions required to push my chair back so he could worm into the space between my feet and the table trestle while I did the crossword. I will miss the little spark of spirit that he showed in objection to my efforts to unsnarl the little mats that knotted the fine hair under his ears.

But mostly I will miss the look in his eye when he saw me come in the house, down the boardwalk, across the lawn or up the driveway because, with all due respect to my much beloved family and friends, nobody was as happy to see me as Huizenga.

Rest in Peace Little 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.

I’m not sure about the rest of you, but in Zenga’s world, the sun now rises sometime between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

And in Zenga’s world, when the sun rises, so does he. And, therefore, so do I. Between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

And after he rises, Zenga’s first order of business is to demand a trip outside, giving me just enough time to run downstairs, fill up his breakfast bowl, grab his daily supplements, fill up the greyhound’s breakfast bowl, run upstairs, to the back door, and let in the Old Yellow Dog.

Once confirmed that I do, indeed, have his breakfast in hand, he follows me to the kitchen, where I put water on his food, feed him the supplements while walking to the hearth, set his bowl down, and let the greyhound outside.

In the time it takes Zenga to eat, I brush my teeth, let the greyhound in and think about going back to bed – a brief and wishful thought, as by then Z is done with breakfast and demanding to be let out for Phase 2.

The second trip out offers a fascinating (at least to my morning-muddled mind) study in the power of routine. Zenga has a route, snuffling around the lawn, down the hill, onto the trail, through the woods ‘til he hits the driveway. Then it’s along the lilacs, across the driveway and toward the house.

My timing plays a critical role in this ritual. Too early, I disrupt the flow and will be expected to wait until he finds  his place again and completes the course. Too late, he’ll repeat the circuit, and once started, cannot be interrupted.

A beautifully choreographed routine, for which my dog has trained me well, much to his delight. After all, a happy dog makes for a happy owner. Even between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

I watch the Old Yellow Dog age a little bit every day now. The turnaround spot on our morning walk gets a little closer to home, his turning radius gets a little wider, and the energy to walk across the ceramic tile gets a little more concentrated. So I spend a lot of time waiting for him – to walk with me, to turn around in the doorway, to build up the momentum to cross the floor.

In turn, he spends a few minutes now and then waiting for me – to let him out, to let him in, to bring him dinner, to let him out, to let him in, to make the greyhound move, to let him out, to let him in, to remind him where the water dish sits, to let him out, to let him in, to remind him that I am still in the house, etc..

And he does it with a bold and slightly raspy bark that is demanding and impossible to ignore. I’ve even seen the hint of a stomped foot when my response time doesn’t meet his expectations.

He is consistent and persistent. No need for alarm clocks or roosters at Four Sticks Farm, because Zenga ensures the household is up and at ‘em by 5:50 a.m. Every morning. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. 5:50 a.m.

But when I get to the front entry and meet his gaze as he stops barking and starts preparing to navigate the tile, I see a glimmer of joyful anticipation of what’s to come, unbridled enthusiasm for the trip inside or outside (even if it’s the 37th of the day) a meal, a detour around the greyhound, a drink, or the reassurance that he’s not alone.

It is still a beautiful world in Zenga’s old eyes, and I am lucky he’s willing to wait for me.

Even 37 times.

To spur some confidence in his ability to walk across the ceramic tile, as well as provide some traction on our slippery winter roads, Zenga is now sporting some flashy red slippers. There is no sneaking around for him anymore, as the slippers announce his shuffled wanderings with a distinctive “whooshck-whooshck, whooshck-whooshck”.

Leaving them on for 2 days straight did great things for Z’s mobile confidence. Hurrah! However, removing the slippers for a routine nail trim reminded me that dogs sweat through the pads on their feet. Even in the winter. And especially when covered by a secure rubberized footing.

I left the slippers on the boot rack in the back entry to allow them, and his feet, to dry overnight. In the morning, the back entry smelled like the Anoka Senior High School wrestling room. (I can make this comparison only because, for reasons long forgotten, our dance line had to practice in the wrestling room once or twice and the smell has been burned into my permanent nasal memory.)

So now Mr. Shuffleupagus builds confidence and strength with his slippers by day, and airs out by night.

Next up, a cardigan for my canine…

I love this old dog.

And he loves me. His 13 year old body lets him down (literally) on occasion now, but his spirit never does. He will still dash down the boardwalk if he sees me coming from the barn; and though his gait is more bunny hop than canine canter, the pace is still quick, the ears are still perky, and the eyes are still bright with the joy of meeting up with a cherished old friend – even if I left the house only 10 minutes earlier.

When he catches up to me, he pushes his head against my knees, waiting to have it cradled in my hands (as it always is) for a thorough ear rub, while his tail wags as vigorously as his weakening back end will allow. As we head for the house together, Zenga will prance just ahead, making sure I see he’s still got It – until he hits a slippery spot on the driveway, or tries to make the corner into the garage a little too sharp or a little too fast. Then, he waits for me to hoist up his splayed back end, make sure his feet are firmly set in the right direction, and point him toward the back door.

Most of his time now is spent sleeping. And snoring. Or barking to go out. Or to come back in. But if he happens to wake while breakfast cereal is poured in a bowl, or George is cutting veggies for a salad, he stations himself in the customary spot, next to the island counter, holding vigil for the inevitable piece that bounces off the counter and onto the floor. His hearing is nearly gone, his eyesight going, but his nose is still a go.

Aside from his physical challenges, Zenga tests positive for a few of the “Signs of Canine Cognitive Dysfunction”, including my favorite, “Disorientation, including getting stuck in corners, wandering aimlessly, and staring into space”. He has done them all. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that this may be a case of dog resembling its owner.

The golden of my childhood lived to be 14, but I lost my others at the age of 11, so I remind myself that every day with my Old Yellow Dog is a bonus and a blessing.

I love this old dog.