The Pace Slows as Years Grow Shorter for a Much-Loved Dog

The Boston Herald

She walks more slowly these days. She doesn't bound to the door, she ambles. She doesn't rush at visitors. She saunters. Her bark is as strong as it has always been and her tail remains in overdrive, but her legs buck and stall, old legs suddenly, though Molly's heart is still young.

She has such skinny legs for a big dog, legs like a horse, legs that she could always depend on. How many mornings did she lunge up the stairs, hurl herself onto our bed, dance and bark and groan and nudge us awake, her nose cold, her eyes bright, until we finally got up and fed her. And how many times did we watch her leap off the bed and fly back down the steps, one continuous wave of energy and movement, her legs more like wings.

She sleeps on the stairwell now and only looks up at the rooms above. In the morning, when she hears us stirring, we hear her tail thumping, her enthusiasm as great as ever. But she doesn't attempt to climb the steps and when we come down and say, "Hi girl. How are you this morning?" she is bright-eyed and cheery, but it takes her a while to get to her feet.

We give her Rimadyl and aspirin and glycosamine and lots of love. Some days are better than others. Some days she bounds down the back steps out into the back yard, her legs hardly any problem. Some days when the doorbell rings, she leaps to her feet. Some days she sleeps on the family room couch and I don't scold her the way I used to. I don't say, "Get off that couch now," because I'm so grateful that she's still able to get up on to the couch.

But most days she has to struggle to get up. Most days her front legs do all the work.

Afternoons, though, when it's time for her walk, the young dog she was reappears for a little while. She jumps up from wherever she is sleeping - she sleeps most of the time these days - and her tail propels her out the door. Her tail overrides her stiff legs and her age and there she is, pulling me, the way she always has, the choke collar useless, Molly determined to run, to race, to feel the wind on her face.

She is almost her old self on these walks. With a burst of energy, she pulls me all the way to the corner store. But then she sputters to a stall.

She used to pull me to the store and back and to the store and back again. She used to be able to walk forever. Now, although "Want to go for a walk?" starts out the same way, her motor dies a half mile down the road.

She doesn't let on though. She pretends she has better things to do. She invents reasons to pause. She sniffs at weeds. She sniffs at the air. She marks her spot every 10 feet. She feigns interest in flowers, in a hubcap some driver lost, in a piece of rope on someone's lawn. She stops and greets every passerby. She pretends to be curious about everything.

But I know the trick. Stop walking to investigate. Show interest in anything. My mother-in-law used to do these things. When she couldn't keep up. When she couldn't quite catch her breath. When her legs hurt and her heart was racing.

She never admitted this. She never said, "I need to stop for a minute. I need to rest." She said, "Look at the roses. I don't remember their being here last year." And "See how the clouds are over the beach" And, "Isn't that a pretty necklace in the window. Let's go in and take a peek." But I knew the real reason she paused.

I know the reason Molly pauses, too, so I don't pull on her leash. I don't hurry her. I let her sniff and breathe and look up at the sky. I let her lead. I let her rest. And I pretend I don't know what she's doing.

We both pretend.