Old dogs. They write songs about’em and
watermelon wine. They have sayings about ‘em learning new tricks. They
even name feet after them, i.e., “My ol’ dogs are shore tired!”
In
a dog’s lifespan they usually figure eight dog years equals one human
year. Little dogs usually live longer than big dogs. Fourteen is old for
a dog, and Rookie had turned fourteen that year.
Old
Rookie was a good-sized spotted hound dog belonging to my to my friend
Tink. I saw the two of them that summer. Tink was lookin’ good. Rookie
looked like a dyin’ duck in a thunderstorm! He was drawed up and pore.
He panted and gazed into space a lot of the time. He had trouble getting
up and down. He stumbled over Popsicle sticks and tumblebugs. It would
be fair to say he had lost his bloom.
We
thought he was so deaf he couldn’t hear himself bark. But after closer
observation we noticed that when you called him, ol’ Rookie would look
the other way. I reckon he was just ignoring us. A privilege we grant
older folks of any species.
He
practiced “snappin’ flies,” Only trouble was after they’d been snapped,
‘he’d open his mouth and the fly would buzz lazily out. Rookie didn’t
have many teeth left ya see.
He
had fleas, ticks and a squadron of flies that hovered over him like
groupies. I suggested we give him a bath and hang an insecticide ear tag
on his collar. Tink said he’d considered that but he was afraid the ol
dog would be lonesome. I didn’t understand...
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