I came down this morning and saw my dog lying there. Peaceful, quiet, and perfectly still. My heart dropped. At over 14, every morning carries a silent question: is he still with us? I tiptoed closer, held my breath, and then, mercifully, saw the twitch of an ear and the tell-tale rise of his ribcage. He was just asleep. A very, very deep sleep, the sort that only old dogs and teenagers seem capable of.
This is the daily dance of living with an ageing pet. They’ve shared our lives for years, always just there, by your side in the kitchen in case anything drops on the floor, under the table at Christmas (the Bracken shuffle) , sneezing directly into our coffee cup. And then one day, you start to realise that every moment, every nap, every tail thump might be the last.
It’s no wonder we get stuck worrying about the when. When will their legs give out? When will they stop eating? When will we have to make that impossible decision? The fear creeps in like a draught in an old house; unwelcome, but familiar.
And yet, somehow, amidst the worry, there’s life.
One friend told me her elderly cat, Geraldine, took to loudly announcing her presence at all hours of the night, usually by sitting on her chest and howling like a banshee. Was she confused? Possibly. Was she demanding roast chicken? Definitely. And even in those bleary-eyed 3am moments, my friend still managed to laugh (eventually) and savour the sheer persistence of a cat who refused to go gently into that good night or any night, really.
Another friend’s spaniel, Toby, started getting carried everywhere. Up stairs, into the car, down to the garden for his constitutional sniff. “He’s royalty now,” she joked, “he doesn’t walk, he is presented.” And you know what? He loved it. He basked in the adoration. Sometimes you wonder if they slow down just to squeeze out a few more treats and carries.
Living with an old pet is a strange gift. You’re granted the chance to make it count; the time, the cuddles, the belly rubs. They don’t ask for much. They never have. Just to be with you. And we, frantic humans that we are, can forget that the joy is in this moment, not the shadowy unknown beyond it.
Yes, the future is scary. Yes, the inevitable hurts. But our old companions don’t dwell on it. They just carry on, doing their best, snoozing in the sun in May, wagging their tails when we come into the room as if to say, “You’re still my whole world, you know.”
So if you’re lucky enough to have an ageing pet by your side, try, just try (and I know it’s not easy) to let the worry go. They’re still here. Still yours. And that is something precious.
This one is for Bertie. A neighbour’s beloved boy who passed recently. They knew his days were numbered, but he still showed up, noble and waggy to our last quiz night. We came third. He looked unimpressed, but I think he was secretly proud. He’d been part of our lives since she moved in, a gentle presence with a nose for our snacks and a talent for stealing hearts.
Rest well, old chap; always a part of Beehive Cottage and parties in the lane.
Photo by Megan Dujardin
