We went to the vet yesterday to have her look at the latest “strange bump” on our old dog Emma. Emma is almost 14. She’s part lab, part German shorthair pointer, so 14 is crazy old. That’s 98 in dog years, or about 214 in “big dog years.”
That’s Emma at right, in her younger days, finishing off an insolent stuffed animal that had the audacity to squeak at her. She’s the inspiration for the Ancestor, and also featured — by name — in NOCTURNAL.
We’re waiting on the bump analysis, but she doesn’t walk that well anymore so I asked the vet how long Emma has before her hips are pretty much done for. The vet said, “six months.”
That’s was a hammer-blow. I’m old enough myself (almost 14 in people years, as we Evil Demons live longer than you fragile creatures) to know that Emma isn’t going to live forever. Still, hearing that your Boo has less than a year to go is rough. The problem is magnified by the fact that she hasn’t lost a bit of her smarts or her “It’s all about me” attitude — her physical condition will degrade, while mentally she’ll still be thinking about treats and wondering why it takes so damn long to reach the kitchen these days.
So, we’ll lavish her with love and treats for the next few months and spoil her even more rotten than normal. I take her for a walk every day at 6:30am. The walks get slower and slower. She tells me she’s just more introspective about her sniffing and wants to really analyze the finer smells of that pee spot or that bit of rotted garbage (she’s poetic like that), but we both know it just takes longer to get from Point A to Point B.
I think she might also blog from time to time. She’s wicked smaht like that. Be prepared, she’s extremely conservative and has no time for you liberals handing out free food to “those goddamn Occupy Pigeons.”