Creak Finds Solace in the Newspaper

I fetch the newspaper every morning. Last week, the Times contained some good news for me, as well as for my canine compatriots. Apparently, there is more and more attention and funding being devoted to advances in pet medicine and pet nutrition, especially for those of us older individuals. Dogs with bladder difficulties can wear diapers, cats with kidney failure disease can take pills, and, most relevant to my situation as well as that of some of my readers, arthritic dogs can now benefit from massages, special foods, and steroid shots. It's about time, mes amis.

I can now get Zuke's Hip Action, which contains the supplement glucosamine, good for soothing aching joints, and tastes like beef. I can take Rimadyl for my arthritis or Anipryl if I become senile (how will I know to take this if I am already senile? Someone's gotta watch out for me). I can get acupuncture treatments or massages from a personal masseuse. Like Seth did. Except canine masseuses appear to be more expensive than Braintree, MA specialists. But I digress.

The article was welcome news, because I've been contemplating my aches and pains recently, for various reasons other than the pain. Sadly, mortality has been on the mind recently. A couple of my friends have died, and though all good dogs go to Heaven, sometimes I'm an atheist. Sometimes I'm bitter about the lots we draw in life. Sometimes life smells like death and I shudder, cringing at the brevity of it all. Just last week, a relative died. She had been an exemplary dog, always caring for others in every way she knew how. We all used to joke about her idiosyncrasies--she stockpiled things in her basement, like bones and paper towels and canned ham and Doritos. We used to joke about her sense of thrift--she would carefully cut out coupons to no end in order to get that 3 cents off her favorite dog food. We used to joke about her stubbornness; even in her old age she refused to let anyone help her rake leaves or mow her lawn or bury her bones (the few not in the basement cupboards). But now she is gone. She won't be at the family congregations, ensuring that everyone has eaten enough steak.

There was a small wake for her. We dutifully filed in to pay our respects. No one knew what to say. We shifted from one paw to another, restless, sad. Vapid condolences were expressed, as she lay there surrounded by pink and red and white carnations. What to say, how to say it. The dead are often memorialized in terms foreign to their truthful existences.

The article talks about the reasoning behind these developments in pet medicine, behind the desire to prolong pets' lives. Humans love to anthropomorphize. The question is broached, are owners devoting more attention and care to pets' health for the benefit of the dogs, or for their own selfish needs? I'm not sure the two are in conflict. Though I must admit, some dogs have had enough and just want to move on--as when life starts to smell like death. But others, like myself, are ready to get that masseuse and try whatever works. They can talk about the joy I derived from life, when I'm gone.