Senior Pup

Rushing the Turnstyle (11/24/2008)

Fips has been astonishingly frisky of late, although, like any flesh and bone creature, he has his moods. Generally, he tends to be pokey and stiff in the mornings and perky at nights. But the temperature has a lot to do with it, and his demonstrations of agility vary.

At the same time, Fips has always had a frumpy gait and a still frumpier look. Even when he was a barely year-old puppy, people would look down and say, “How old is he?” I’ve gotten used to Fips’ ancient air, even if -- in his own way -- he’s actually quite curious and active.

Still, despite his friskiness, I’ve noticed a certain “sloppiness” in his left haunchy. It works great propelling him forward, but he’s tended to stumble taking a step back or on an uneven surface. I’ve been eyeing it for the past two or three weeks.

Then, earlier this week, it appeared to get worse, although he demonstrated no pain when probed in the hip or lower back and would tense his leg quite well and naturally when stretching after a snooze. To further confuse things, he suddenly became very sensitive to being touched around the shoulder, and would hunch from time to time, which would then cause him to stumble over his left rear leg.

I began to worry and panic.

After making an appointment to see Dr. Smith on Friday, I called UC Davis, talked the matter up with a very helpful telephone assistant and then left a message for one of the neurologists to call me back. Several hours later I got a call from a Dr. Knipe.

We talked for about 10 minutes. I gave her a synopsis of Fips & Symptoms -- his age, diet, meds, behavior. Of course, she could not proffer a diagnosis over the phone, and she suggested keeping the appointment with Smith and perhaps getting an x-ray. Because of his ability to run and jump, it did not seem to be a case of arthritis; but because he wasn’t dragging his leg or being incontinent, it did not sound neurological either. Knipe said that generally if a dachshund hasn’t had a slipped or frozen disk by this age, the chances are they’re not going to get one. That was nice to hear.

Just as nice was the fact that Dr Knipe called me back and spent some time talking to someone who wasn’t a paying patient. I had heard several times that the staff at UC Davis was friendly, and that was my experience. Such a relief from the usual put-upon and chastising “... if you want to talk to the doctor you’ll have to make an appointment.”

So...Friday morning, I loaded up the doggies into the Cruiseliner and headed over the mountain and down to Moraga. For the most part, Fips stayed curled up in his “I am dead” mode on the seat, while Rosco sat up in the doggie lounger and stared out the side window. Eventually Rosco came half way down, lying on a folded blanket on the console between the seats.

It’s such a tiresome trip out of here. First the serpentine mountain road; then the two lane highway down to Napa with fools turning onto or off the road without warning, and lastly the insanity of the mega freeway through Concord and Walnut Creek. It’s hard to believe that when I first came here, Walnut Creek was just that. Now it’s a hideous concrete wasteland of gargantuan malls and ponderous financial service sector office blocs. But Moraga, once orchards nestled between rolling hills, remains a pleasant upper middle class enclave that at times looks surprisingly a lot like Connecticut.

We pulled into Smith’s clinic on Country Club Drive, with fifteen minutes to spare. No sooner had I turned off the engine than Fips -- Lazarus like -- awoke from the dead and couldn’t wait to jump out. “Wait-a-mini.... Wait-a-mini” I said as I collected myself.

Just as I lifted the doggies out of the Cruiseliner, Smith drove in from lunch. I told him to take a look as Fips trotted over to some hedges. “He looks fine,” Smith said, “though he favors the right leg a little.” I told him to keep the gait in mind and that I’d been in as soon as I gave the dogs a quick walk-about. By now the dogs were very impatient and the two bruder hunds chased over and rolled around in Smith’s ground ivy before heading up the street.

Back in the examining room, I got my iBook ready to show clips of Fips running the other week. After looking and laughing at the doggie movie show, Smith lifted Fips up onto the table and began his poking and prodding. Fips started a light tremble. “It’s OK, Fipsie...”

I looked at Smith and said, “You know, when you tell him ‘it’s ok’ he knows it’s not”. Smith laughed. Language is so relative.

Smith pulled the leg. It pulled back. He pushed the leg, it pushed back. He lifted one leg and pulled, the other leg hopped along. He twisted, a leg, the other leg balanced back. After more of this sort of thing, Smith concluded that it was nothing neurological. He did not even think an x-ray was necessary, although we could take one for future comparison purposes, if I wanted. (At Country Club prices, I didn’t.)

But Fips’ neck and ears in particular were ultra sensitive and after further checking, Smith said that he Fips had a bad case of the itchies all over and particularly in his ears, which had a minor skin infection.

What a relief! What a relief! for Rosco too, who had been eyeing up from below with intense attention and uneasy anticipation.

So for now, it’s benadryl and medicated shampooing. Fips is going to love that. Just like he loved it 14 years ago when he got an attack of the itchies and many "douchies" (doggie german for 'bath') with expensive creamy shampoos.

Otherwise, Fips checked out fairly well. According to Smith, the stumbles are normal with old age. He said, it’s not fully understood, but these symptoms seem to be neurological “short circuits” or signal delays. As for the episodic shakes, that too is normal with age and seems to be a kind of palsy.

Fips still has a slight heart murmur, but no worse than in June. Unlike June, though, he is starting to develop a cataract in one of his eyes. Smith says that for now it is not affecting his vision. I pointed out that Fips’ incisors were worn down to the gums, and Smith said just to check the gums for possible swelling & infection. Around Spring, he should probably have his teeth cleaned again.

All things considered, Friday the Twelfth brought good news.

Like any flesh and bone creature, Fips will die. I know it will come sooner rather than later; and I hope that when it does come, it does so stealthily, like a thief in the night. But for now I am not only relieved but proud -- immensely proud of little Frumpy Fips, who has been “old” since he was a puppy and remains a puppy, albeit a senior one, to this day.



.

Smellavision isn't Everything

This morning it was sunlit and crisp -- perfect doxie weather. So, I took los doggies out early, at 9.30, while the humans were off praising their Sky Alpha or catching pre-runs of NASCAR , allowing us the school grounds to ourselves.

Fips was in an ultra-frisky mood, hop skipping around like a doggie in a meaty-bone store. When he's bursting with energy like this, it blows me away to think that he's 14 and 1/2. Rosco was full of it too... but that just turns him into a hyper Electrolux, scowering the ground furiously for edibles. If it weren't for the adoration in his eyes, I'd type him for a stomach on four legs.

When "we" had finished scouring the grounds and taking a trot over the field, I headed back to the Jeep. The field is about a yard down from the parking lot and in order to exit, you have to pass through a turnstyle in the fence and then walk up three or four steps onto a raised grassy knoll that abuts the lot. I walked ahead and waited by the Jeep. Rosco was not far behind. But Fips got detained by a smell, and when he looked up, I was nowhere to be seen.

The poor little doggie panicked. From my vantage point, I could see his head look left, then look to the right... I called out, but he didn't hear the exact direction, so he started running back in the direction from which we had come but away from the exit and stairs. On the other side of the fence, I ran toward him, calling out so that he could see where I was. He looked up, stopped, was evidently happy again and ran back toward the turnstyle.

All of us back in the "truck" and done with the obligatory water slurps, I decided to get my gym session out of the way. So we drove over the hill to Hidden Valley. Once parked, I gathered up my sweats and headed inside. But Fips was having a separation attack and insisted on coming with me. He was so intent on this that he fell into his water bowl before forcing his way past my hand and almost jumping out of the cab -- which would not have been good orthopaedically speaking.

I decided to take the boys into the gym, but had to get the rope-leash from the other side of the Jeep. As I walked around, both doggies trimmed to the other side of cab, knocking over the bowl again. Sheeesh...doggies! Just a minute, Just a minute. Eventually and after no small amount of entangling with sweats, leashes and bounding furry bodies... I made it to the ski machine where I did my half hour as the doggies - now motionless -- lay nearby.

When I had finished, the doggies were just as impatient to leave, and tugged me by their leash out the door, where they suddenly had lots of time to sniff and piss. Eventually we got back into the Jeep and headed back to Middletown. It was such a nice day, that I decided to take them to "Central Park" for more walking about.

There was no let up on their eagerness as they hopped and sniffed about until, all of a sudden, Fips decided he wanted to go... Now! So I lifted him back into the Jeep and waited for Rosco to bring up the rear. He did, but just outside the fence gate, where we had parked, he stopped.

Smell Alert!

Rosco stood at the base of a blue plastic barrel looking up to where a very attractive aroma was emanating. He stretched out his body and leaped up -- his little paws almost reaching the rim. Back down again. Stare at the rim. Stretch and leap. Back down again. Stare at the rim.....

Rosco was trying to push the barrel over, but this was not going to happen because from where he was standing, he was pushing it directly into the fence it stood against. I saw that the barrel leaned a little to the right, so it was obvious to me that if Rosco was to succeed in his ambition he would have to jump push from the left. Again, Rosco pushed the barrel against the fence.

"Rosci"

He looked over, his eyes reflecting the apprehension that I would put an end to the enterprise. I walked over as his he took a slight step back, still looking up with uncertainty and apprehension. I stood to the left of the barrel and prodded it with my fingers.

"Pushy, Rosco," I said, "Pushy here."

The look in Rosco's eyes now told me that he was waiting for me to push the barrel over; but I wanted him to do it.

I kept prodding the barrel and motioning Rosco to come over to the left side. Fairly quickly he caught on that I wanted him to keep jump-pushing the barrel, but he simply did not fathom that I wanted him to do it from the left side. Again he pushed it into the fence.

At last I took him by the collar and led him around to the left.

Bonk, Bonk

Pushy here Rosco; Pushy here.

He ducked away over to the front side of the barrel.

Again I took him by the collar and led him around to the left.

Bonk, Bonk

Pushy here Rosco; Pushy here.

NOW, he finally got it and started jump-pushing from the left side, as I stood back to see if he would succeed.

About the fourth or fifth pounce, the barrel slowly started to keel over and then fell to the ground with a thud. Rosco wasted no time in scampering over to the opening and delving inside from where he emerged with a full half ros' beef sammich in his maw which he devoured in three seconds or less as Fips looked on through the windshield of the Jeep.

Rosco then got his nose stuck Heffalump style in an empty bag of Cheezos, and after running around for a while eventually disengaged and was ready to get back into the Jeep and return home --- a good morning having been had by all.

.

Back to the Big River

Fips started skip-bouncing when he saw me gathering up coats and leashes. Seeing Fips get excited got Rosco going too. As always, it’s better to let them wait out their excitement in the “truck” rather than exercise it under foot; so I opened the back gate. Rosco trotted out and positioned himself to be lifted into the Jeep. Fips followed but seemed a little confused and nosed over toward the Ford. I gently put my hand on his side and eased him the other way and lifted him up too. Then I finished gathering up my stuff and locked the door.

First stop, the town park. It was bright but not too warm. I let the fuzzy butts peramble at ease. It is a long and tedious mountain drive over to Cazadero just 10 miles short of the coast, so I figured I’d let the doggies shake as much leg as possible now. Rosco headed over to his spot to gnaw the dirt where the Senior Center cooks dump their grease. Fips headed over to the kitchen and waited by the door, until I called him away.

When they had had their fill of sniffing and poking, I lifted them back into the “truck” and we headed over the mountain. As usual, Fips started the trip with his nose poking out the window like some sniff-O-scope and then, as the endless curving back and forth got to be too much, retreated back down and curled up in the seat.

From Calistoga there are two roads to Santa Rosa -- Calistoga Road which heads south to central Santa Rosa and Mark West Road which meets up with highway 101 just north of the city. Whenever we take Mark West, we invariably turn south upon reaching 101; however, today, after reaching the freeway, I continued going west. Aren’t we supposed to turn left here? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Fips sit up, look out and take stock. It’s been 10 years since we’ve been to Guerneville and I wondered if Fips remembers the road. It seems incredible that he should but I sense that he does.

As we wound our way through the dimly lit redwood forest to Cazadero, I also sensed that this damp, mossy, bark and earth smelling environment was a dachshund’s delight. But it’s too dank for me and, as I don’t know the area at all, I just let them out for a brief sniff around. Instead, on the way back, through Guerneville, I stopped off at an almost as damp “park” of sorts that sloped down to the river

This is new, this is fun and the doggies find plenty to sniff. Rosci leads the way, trotting down a path carpeted in redwood pine needles. Fips treads softly, as his spongy pads detect sharpness. Eventually the two fuzzy butts scramble down to the what’s left of the river and puddle about in the pools of water.

I look for a stick. Finding one, I hold it up for Fips. “Stick, Fipsie, Stick” He looks up, but doesn’t get all skippy and hoppy the way he used to. I toss it several yards into the water, and he wades in after it, drags it back in his teeth and then gnaws it at the shoreline. But there’s no gusto in it. He does it more out of a dutiful remembrance of habits passed.

Ten years ago, in the Spring when the river was flush and strong, Fips had paddled out from a little watery cul-de-sac and almost got swept away by the seemingly placid but unforgiving current.

After some more poking about, I say “Let’s go back to the truck now.” and Fips leads the way scrambling up the embankment. He manages pretty well all things considered, even getting up a little trot or two. His energies definitely correlate with the ambience. Cool and damp is Fipsie’s favorite.

He’s as eager to get back to the “truck” as he was to get out and down to ground. Rosco brings up the rear and probably wouldn’t mind hanging out some more. I lift them back into the Jeep and the two furry pals curl up in their respective spots, Fips entangled into a blanket and Rosco nestled into a pillow and sweat jacket. They both know it’s going to be an hours ride back.

By late afternoon we are home. The doggies are tired and curl up in bed. I’m tired of all the driving too, and lay down for a little snooze alongside Fips, my arm around his head and feeling his warm doggie body next to my side and Rosco curled up by my leg.

.

Nightwalks

Now that it is getting darker earlier, we've started up our nightwalks again to the evident delight of the doggie-pals. It's not the same during the summer. Then, nightfall is later and the air is still warm and moist from the daytime scorch. But now, by eight or nine, it is brisk and cool and the deutscher doggies are in their element. They assemble at the back gate impatiently waiting for me to put on their leashes and, once the gate is opened, take off with such velocity as to nearly yank one of the leashes out of my hand. Invariably, the chord gets stuck in a car fender or the pals run on opposite sides of a pole. One way or another, things get untangled and the dachshund gallop heads down the back alley toward the street.

Fips actually gall-hops like some oversized rabbit. Rosco doesn't but rather scurries along like a big furry centipede. Either way, they just as abruptly halt to sniff. They decide whither and yon they want to go and, since the town is pretty quiet at this time of night, I simply follow their meanderings occasionally casting the third vote when they want to head off in opposite directions.

.

Fips Takes a Pad About

There was a light knock on the door. "Oh shit," I muttered, annoyed at being interrupted at work. It was the Complex's gardener. "Are you missing a dog?" he asked.

Missing a dog?? Why would I be missing a dog? I took a quick look under my desk. No Fips. I took a quick feel of the jumble of doggie blankets and pillows on the floor. One Rosco. No Fips. Why the hell, am I looking around here? I berated myself.

"I couldn't tell, if it was yours or not," said the gardener

"Well just show me," I said impatiently as I headed out the door, "Where is he?"

"He didn't have a collar; it looked like yours, but seemed fuzzier."

"Where is he?"

"A lady brought him over but we couldn't tell...."

Ah yes.... it was one of those stomach-knot moments.

"Where is he?"

The gardener pointed to the grassy pic-nic area, and there in the distance I saw woman kneeling down and an unmistakable fuzzy shape.

He won't budge, the woman said, as Fips jumped up and started getting all frisky.

"We thought it might be yours," the gardener said.

The woman was Kim, a next door neighbor whom I some time cross paths with as she walks her shaggy dog in the evening.

"I thought it might be yours," Kim said, "but he acted older. I was going to take him to Dr. Smith's but he wouldn't move."

As it turns out, a handyman who was putting up a new gate at Kim's house saw Fips walking slowly down the middle of the road. He called to him, and Fips, always up for a "hello," came over. Thinking he might be a stray, the handyman offered Fips some food, but Fips wasn't hungry. "That's when I figured he belonged to someone."

The handyman called Kim, who yoo-hoo'd across the street to Jim -- "who knows everything" -- and who said, "Oh yes, he belongs to that guy in the Complex".

Kim put a leash around Fips, but he would not be moved; so she carried him over. "Boy, he's heavier than he looks." "I know," I said.

Rosco many times, but Fips has never wandered off like this, and I couldn't for the life of me figured out how it happened. But it had.

I profusely thanked all concerned: the handyman, Kim and the gardener. Then I walked home, with Fips trotting merrily and hip hopping at my heels.

"Boy, look at him now," Kim said.

I smiled.

.

Doggie Gratitutde

Now, as the summer draws to a close and the dry grass and nettles have been ground down into the dirt, the doggie boys and i have resumed our near noon walks at the town Park n' Rodeo grounds. At this time of day, no one is there except for ten or twenty seniors pulling up to the Senior Center for their daily meal.... And Fips who makes it a point to amble towards the kitchen's back-door.

Unfortunately, the cooks have been pretty busy and Fips has had to go away empty mouthed, and with that air of disappointed bafflement at how something which worked before (being there) no longer worked now.

Sunday, when the Center is closed, Fips stood at a distance looking intently at the kitchen wondering whether he should even bother walking up toward the door. Eventually he decided, in a not very hopeful way, that maybe it was worth a try. It wasn't.

Today, though, the kitchen door swung open and one of the cooks came out carrying a LARGE ziplock bag chock full of Pork Bits. She handed it to me, saying that maybe it would make up for the past week. "Ooooh... thank you so much," i said, as Fips and Rosco danced and jumped around my feet.

"What have we got here....?" I said as I took several steps back and opened the bag while the pals followed after me all but exploding with excitement. I gave each a chunk o' pork as the cook looked on and the doggies gulped. I took another step back, bent down and gave them two more chunks. Gulp.

I straightened up closed the bag and looked over at the cook, who was about five yards away. "You've made them real, happy; thank you." She took a puff from her cigarette and nodded.

Just then Fips and Rosco trotted over to her and nosed her legs. The cook and I looked at one another, fairly blown away. "I guess I didn't have to say it for them," I said. "They feel more than we give them credit for, " she replied.

After thanking the cook, Fips and Rosco returned to where the succulent smell was and followed me back to the Jeep.


.

Fips Lets it Be Known....

There hadn’t been a day I did not think of Fips...and Rosco too. In fact, Wednesday night, after turning under the covers. I had an attack of separation anxiety. First thing Thursday morning I called Gene. Everything was OK, he said. Fips had adopted Phyllis and Rosco had adopted him, and all four doggies were getting along, although Rosco had snapped at Patches when Patches had gotten too pushy. I was relieved. Still I missed my doggies.

It was already nine in the evening by the time I got home on Sunday. It was not too late to call. Gene said the dogs were still fine. I made arrangement to pick them up Monday morning between ten and eleven.

It was a bright sunny morning, warm but not hot, as I drove over the winding hills to Riviera on the Lake, the fuzzy ones in mind as an anticipated presence.

I parked in front of the house and walked down, past the fenced porch and doggie gate to the front door, and knocked. Gene opened, as I expected the doggies to leap up and come running over to me all commotioned and waggy-tailed. Not a chance.

Fips was sitting several yards away and looking straight at the door. For a half second he started to leap up but then sat back down where he was, as Rosco trotted over, dubiously happy but far from ecstatic. I went over to pet Fips, but he was unimpressed. In fact he ducked away.

Awwww Fipsie..... c’mon.....

Nope.

The look in Fips’s eyes was an unmistkably frosty, “And where the hell have you been.” But it makes me love him all the more. How can you not love a dog that holds a grudge?

I handed Gene the token presents I had brought and we sat down in the living to talk room over some coffee. Fips held his distance, keeping present but making a point of being aloof. Rosco, came over, though, and I sat on the floor with my back against the couch, petting his head and neck.

Oh .... OK

After about half an hour, Fips ambled over, still not without an air of Having Cause, but with an evidently greater desire for being fondled.

When at last I stood up, the doggies sensed it was time to go. They ran to the door and ran again up hill impatiently waiting for me to lift them into the Jeep. “Looks like they’re anxious to get home,” Gene said. I thanked him once again for all he and Phyllis had done.

-o0o-

Et Post: It would take about two weeks before Fips got over his separation trauma. He kept an eye on my motions and looked at me with a combination of anxiety and reproach whenever it looked like I was getting ready to go outside. Eventually, with extra doses of everything, things got back to normal.

o6/08/08

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