You can’t beat back time –
especially when you’re in puppy love

It was bound to happen. He’s nearly eight years old, which, in dog years, means 56. So the walks aren’t as long, and the naps are longer.  But today, he did something he hasn’t done since he hurt his back a couple of months ago: He stopped walking. Right on the sidewalk.

I let him choose the direction we’d take, as usual. And rather than turn on the street that would save us 10 or 15 minutes, he chose the long way. I was glad. I needed the exercise, and summer sunshine seems finally to have beat back winter.

But halfway down the block, he stopped walking. He didn’t look at me, didn’t whimper. He just waited. And as I had when he’d hurt his back and I needed to lift him onto the sofa or onto the bed, I just picked him up and began walking. A few drivers who passed us smiled. I’m sure they thought I was pampering him.

We walked that way for a block, him cradled in my arms, feet and smile sunward. But suddenly, he started to wiggle.

“You want to get down?” I asked, as I always do, as if he can respond.

I place him legs down on the sidewalk, and he begins to walk again. Yes, dogs have pride, and they know how to rally.

We walked back home at the pace he set and settled back in at home.

We’re watching the French Open. Well, I’m watching the French Open, and he’s watching me. Rafi Nadal is winning, as expected. Desi’s eyes are closing, time for another nap.

We can’t beat back time. We can’t hold it, delay it or wish it away.

But for today, we’re back to normal. It’s 11:27 SLT (Sunday Lazing Time), and we are happy.  In a few hours, we’ll grab the toys and run around the house. Well, I’ll throw them and he’ll run around the house chasing him. His latest one is a weird looking red weasel whose squeakers do not fade.

Desi likes to play chase in the house. It’s not hot; his water bowl is nearby. And when he’s tired, he just quits and lays on his back and looks at me with that “Come hither and rub my chest” look. He rules the house, and he rules my schedule. Just like my daughter once did before she grew up and went to live on her own.

Yep, my dog was a child.  Then he became a peer, like a brother you need to take care of or a husband you dote on.  Soon, he becomes a parent to whom you are devoted.

He’s 56 years old. He is older than I. Next birthday, he’ll be 63.

SoI rub his head and chest vow to count the days more slowly, to begin lying about his age, to hold him more, to travel and leave him less.

Because you can’t beat back time. Not with a stick. Not with love. Not with wishes.

And I want time to ignore us right now.





The veterinarian asked me to cook what?

I knew something was wrong when I walked in from a debate watch Monday night, and there was no pitter-patter of little feet at the door.  It has been years since my lovey, Desi, had not run to the door from whatever comfortable perch he had found to demand that I transition quickly from newsroom slave to his slave.

But I opened the door, and nothing happened. I called out. Nothing. My heart began to pound.

By the time I got to the stairs, he was coming down, quickly and quietly – not slow and tentatively. He was almost himself, except he didn’t bark. And he didn’t jump.

I kept an eye on him. I checked his food dish. I manipulated his four limbs and checked his stomach. Nothing bothered him. Well, except half-ass walks.

During a full week of fighting a virus that had me bed-ridden, his walks were more less walk and more stand. I could barely make it to the end of the block, so his beloved jaunts through the neighborhood had become bathroom breaks. It didn’t matter that we were doing them four times a day.  They were too short.

By Wednesday, he had decided he was sick of food. Even with a regular walks resumed, he still looked like he felt puny. He didn’t even wake me up in the mornings. He always would wake up before I did, eager to get out the door.

On Wednesday evening, he threw up while we were walking. He didn’t eat his dinner. Thursday, he ate only half his food. Early Friday morning, he threw up in the middle of the night.

So Friday morning, we walked down to the vet, where everyone, for just a minute, stopped working. They all love him art his vets. They know he’s the world’s best dog.

The vet checked his teeth, lymph nodes, chest, stomach. His temperature was normal. His reaction to being poked was normal. He was even bouncing around, tail wagging.

The doctor said it was probably something he ate. The doctor said that it might if, for two days, I cooked for him, something bland like boiled chicken and rice.

I just looked at her.

Then I said OK.

Then I picked up the phone, fully intending to call my late grandmother who as walked me through cooking anything my entire life. But she has been done now 12 years now.

And that is the last time I cooked rice.

Things turned out OK. I grabbed Success “rice in a bag” and some boneless chicken breasts and a Dutch oven from the supermarket. I followed the instructions and then promptly went online and forgot that anything was boiling on the stove.

Ten minutes later, the smell of burning plastic sent me racing to the kitchen.

I had left a plastic spatula on the stove – too close to the gas burner. It was melting exactly when I was supposed to stop cooking (Cue “Twilight Zone” music).

The rice was perfect. The chicken was, uh, chicken.

Desi devoured it. He’s better. He’s taking a nap now. And I know that I can, indeed, cook rice.

And I will do so for people one day real soon.




Desi Has Surgery

My dog Desi, the world’s greatest dog, had surgery last Thursday. While all surgeries are serious, his was low on a scale of 10. He had a little bump above his left eye that the doctor needed to remove.  His vet wanted to use general anesthesia.

I said: “Two words: irrational and resolute.”

Desi’s vet is pretty smart and got it right away.

“Your fear of me putting him to sleep is irrational, and you’re not going to change your mind, right?”

Told you she was smart. So she gave him a feel-good shot in his thigh, and he was so mellow that she completed the surgery with only two sutures AND cleaned his teeth.

When she called to say he was up and around, she said, “He’s happy. His tail is wagging. And he is the world’s best dog!”

He was fine until they insisted that he wear a collar to keep him from scratching the sutures. I left without it.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I said with that momentary, irrational arrogance that comes from thinking you know more than your doctor or banker or your dog’s vet.

We arrived at the home and had been in the house for about .9 seconds when he reached up his back par and began scratching.


My assistant, Leah, raced back to pick up the collar.

“Did they laugh?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, laughing, really laughing. “They laughed.”

I drove him around in the car to distract him from trying to lie down without falling over, which he just could not do. When we got back, Desi immediately felt like posting about his day on his Face Book page. I share it with you here.

“So she was smiling real big, right? That’s when I knew something was up. She took me to the doctor, who kept rubbing this bump on my face and saying “No problem.” Next thing I know, I’m asleep. When I wake up, the bump is gone, my teeth are clean and I’m wearing a flower hat. Oh, the embarrassing inhumanity! But I AM getting lots of treats and some cool pills!”

Yes, that’s my Desi. If you want to read more of his posts, visit