Much Snow

***Bernie and Poochie, May 1995, Gardnerville, Nevada***

I spent some time both last night and today outside shoveling and blowing snow. I've yet to figure out why everyone is so high on blowing snow . . . I simply run out of breath, quickly! Ha. I miss Bernie when I'm out in the snow, she loved it and we would play after we shoveled.

One thing I like about this blog is that I rarely know what I'm going to write about when I open it up. Something always comes to mind, tonight Bernie's tendency to gnaw holes in fences that she's behind. Thinking of that reminds me of the first day I had to leave her at home alone, back in Tahoe on the meadow. Elizabeth and I had to go to work, and Poochie always stayed outside when we were gone. She'd go in her doghouse some, wander around some, never barked. Then all of a sudden, I had Bernie. The yard was fenced in, but it was some sort of barbed wire fence, without the barbs--meaning that a curious dog could escape easily. Poochie was content, she never saw a need to leave the yard. But what about Bernie? Given that she'd run off the day before--the very first day of our friendship--I wasn't comfortable leaving her to roam the yard. So I put her in the chicken coop! Yep, there was a chicken coop in the middle of the yard, much more secure than the yard itself. It was plenty big, even had some shelter if desired. A perfect plan, right?

Well, it was pouring rain that day, a rarity in Tahoe. So out Poochie and Bernie went, and I got Bernie in the chicken coop! I could go to work in peace, so I thought for a split second. Then the barking started. Mad, wild barking. Bernie didn't like the chicken coop. This is before I understood what she was saying when she talked, but I'm sure now that she was trying to tell me, "The black dog is a dog, Dad. Black dog not a chicken. The dog don't belong in a chicken coop." It was pouring rain, she was standing in it looking out barking like a wild dog. I didn't know that much about dogs then, all of our dogs had been easy. Just put them out and they hang out till you tell them to do otherwise. Bernie was telling us otherwise right off the bat. Barking, barking, barking. Elizabeth and I looked out the door at her, going crazy running back and forth, barking. I was genuinelly distraught and said to Elizabeth something to the effect of, "What was I thinking? I don't want that dog!" I was dead serious.

Obviously, I soon had a change of heart.

So anyway, lots of fences in Tahoe are cedar plank, where you can't see out of them or under them. So Bernie would chew a hole at the bottom of them, just big enough so she could lay down, rest her head on the ground between her paws, and peer out at the world at large. She would stick her nose through the hole, her eyes shifting about, waiting for me to re-appear at home. So now there is  a fence at 3469 Norma Ave. in South Lake Tahoe, California and another at a house in Gardnerville, Nevada that has little peek holes dug out years ago by my little black dog, Bernie. And now you know why I chose to put in a (aluminum) rod iron fence that you can see through at our house in St. Paul.

Smile!

***There's my little buddy swimming in Lake Tahoe! 1997***

What better way to close another day by writing about the little black dog who made so many of my days. I used to mentally refer to Bernie as the "million-smile" dog, for she made me smile so many times each day that it had to add up to one million! Actually, one of my favorite things was to watch people's faces as Bernie came into their vision. Invariably, they would smile. Fellow walkers, drivers, people working in their yards--all would smile as the California mountain dog presented herself.

One day, when we were walking the mountain trails of Tahoe, I heard a gasp from a woman around the bend, where Bernie was and I was heading. This was out of my sight, so I feard the worse, that Bernie had taken a hunk o' love out of the walker. So I hurried to the scene to find Bernie prancing down the trail, two women standing, one with her hand on her chest--presumably she was the gasper. She looked at me and said, "Your dog came around the corner . . . she looks just like a bear!" I was like, "Yeah, sorry."

People referred to Bernie as bear-looking quite often. I always thought of her as more wolf-like in appearance. As I of late sift through photos of her recent and earlier, I notice a change. She looks much more wolf-like in her younger pictures, much more bear-like in her later ones. Likely the change was more a result of her massive coat she'd grow each winter upon moving to Minnesota than any other reason. Tahoe has snow and cold, but Minnesota has COLD. Put it this way: the extreme amount of snow in Tahoe (160 inches per year at lake level, if I remember right) equates to the extreme cold of Minnesota, whereas the more normal snowfall of Minnesota equates to the more normal cold of Tahoe. Of course, Sacramento has neither. Anyway, she'd grow these big huge coats of fur here, to the point you really couldn't feel her skin unless you poked a finger through the fur. Fortunately, Bernie didn't really shed. I'd have to brush it out starting in spring and honestly, we'd pull the last remnants of her winter undercoat out in August. For all those months, I'd brush out numerous clumps of beautiful black fur each week till it was "All done!" And upon hearing those words, Bernie would jump to her feet and eagerly await my "Bernie wanna green bone?" (Greenie) exclamation for being a "Good girl, Bernie!" 

And as she lept to retrieve the green bone from my hand, one of my million smiles would cross my face.

I Forgot a Headline for This Post

'

***Bernie in "her" (my) bed, October, 2006***

On my bed now is a black comforter that has a big rip on the top of it. Bernie ripped it. I mentioned in my thank yous that Bernie had ripped up some pillows long ago when Lenny left her alone for a few. I mentioned her eating the door. And I mentioned she loved to eat her stuffed "monkeys." When it came to stuffed animals I gave her to chew on, she always went for the eyes first--pulling and twisting till they came off. Then she'd destroy the rest.

Anyway, my comforter has a big rip in it, the result of one of Bernie's last acts of rage. She had a bit of separation anxiety, hated to be left inside alone for, oh, the first 13 years of her life. So she'd take it out on the linens--a new pair of bedsheets that I really liked so I sewed them up and used them for a couple years after, pillows, the comforter. She never chewed on anything else. Well, I had to pay a penalty for some gnawing she did on some nice new doors at a place I lived in Tahoe. All in all, though, she caused very little phyical damage. As I mentioned, never chewed on Chad's stuffed animals, never chewed shoes or anything. Of course, she was outside almost all the time when I wasn't here, unless it was super cold. She'd never bark outside unless someone messed with her. Or toddlers came by--children freaked her out for, oh, the first 13 years of her life. They were like little aliens to her. My dilemna was that they always wanted to pet Bernie, so soft and cuddly.

So I'd tell the little kiddies to hold on a sec, and I'd sit Bernie down and get on my knees beside her, petting her. Then I'd invite los ninos to pet her, one at a time. Invariably, their trepidation flashed into a smile as soon as their hand hit the fur. "She's so soft!" Bernie would be wiggling, in her own little hell as the neighborhood freak show. I'd pet her, though, telling her she's a good girl, my hand also against her collar, ready to snap her head away should she release the lion-dragging jaws she possessed.

She never bit anyone other than me on day one, probably because she knew it would make me sad if she bit someone.

She never made me sad.

Transitions

The number one question I get is, "Are you going to get another dog?" The only good reason for me to run out and get another dog in the near future is the service it provides to said dog. I'm a good doggie daddy.

However, there are several not so good reasons to run out and get a dog: At some level, my default mindset would be that said dog would have to "be Bernie," at this point. That's no good. Also, I give a lot to my dogs, and I ain't got a lot to give in that regard right now. I'm dog tired for the time being. Third, my life with Bernie was one big adventure, our life combined and my life (beyond comprehension of doggie). That long and lovely chapter of my life is closed (more on that in a subsequent post), and I am currently re-loading for my next big adventure(s). We'll see where I may land, but when I do, it will be with Bernie and Poochie only, not with another dog.

In other words, I have no plans on getting a dog within the foreseeable future.

My next move in that regard, though, may be to train service dogs. You get them as pups, train them through a nonprofit organization, and give them up at two or two and a half years. What's really fun is that your trainee is part of  a "class" of service dogs, and they train together. So, you get to take your dog to restaurants and stuff with its class, to learn how to order from the menu for its master, etc.

I bet you didn't know some dogs can order from a menu.

Anyway, I think that's a great idea. Yes, it would be tough to give the dog up, but how much can you really whine about that when the dog is going to such a worthy cause and person? Besides, most trainers continue to see and care for to some degree their trainees ongoing, that's up to the new owner.

If you're interested, visit Helping Paws website, if for nothing else than to check out the cute puppy and dog photos! Helping Paws is a top-notch organization that has Bernie's paw of approval. They have many different ways you can contribute to the organization, not just via training a dog or $$$. Check it out.

Ouch

***Double click on the image for a better look at "sweet, lanky Barney".***

I came home from work.

I got the mail.

I opened the mail.

I pulled from an envelope the Tahoe paper with Bernie's story in it.

In the print version, they printed the Pet of the Week ad next to the more recent photo.

I looked at the Pet of the Week ad, from August 22, 1994.

I read it.

I looked at it more.

I showed Nichole and Dave.

I sat back down and looked at it more.

I set it down.

I went upstairs.

I lost it.

Cried like I haven't since right after she left.

Cried for about sixty seconds.

Hard, harder than I did when she left.

Then it stopped.

I breathed.

(Then I went downstairs, made some grilled cheese, and accidentally tried to pick up the hot skillet like it was a plate.)

(My finger is burned. I've rarely been burned before.)

(I just want to go to bed.)

'Night Bernie.

No, YOU'RE Old!

I mentioned previously that I never called Bernie old. Never. And a really good policy is that you never call someone else's dog "old," not to dog or owner's face anyway. Of course, you can describe your own dog in anyway you want.

Certainly, Bernie was old relative to the lifespan of a dog. In fact, for one her size, she pretty much eclipsed any reasonable expectation--she was 105 years old, you know. But you wouldn't have known it. Gray muzzle? Had that since she was a teenager. Hind-leg limp? Had that for several years. Hopping like a bunny up the steps? Well, we'll see if you can even climb steps at all when you're 105!

She wasn't "old." I had an old dog before. Poochie was an "old dog." Bernie wasn't. Aside from the throat tumor--and cancer the disease never bothered her--and some narrowing of her spinal column, which caused me more worry than her difficulty, she was about 10 years old, maybe 11, physically. The rest of her doggie body, her mind, and her doggie spirit were much, much younger. That was the worst part about putting her to sleep: She was still a "puppy," but I digress for now.

So you see, she wasn't old. So if I see you on the street and you ask about Bernie, and I say, "Bernie is gone, she passed away in January," don't look at me and say, "Oh, well she was getting kind of old and slow."

She wasn't old.

Harder Than You Think

***I think I posted this pic previously, but I failed to mention . . . this is Bernie on top of her doghouse. It used to snow enough in Tahoe for her to simply walk up on top of it, to bathe in the warm sunshine!***

Or harder than I think. I never spend a lot of time time moping, or feeling sorry for myself--or for anyone else, for that matter. I "mourned well," primarily concentrating my thinking about Bernie to blog time and the occasional recollection to a friend. I said many times starting many months ago that the hardest part when Bernie left would be adapting to the physical absence of her. I wouldn't be sad so much, for neither her nor I could have asked much more out life for her, in quality or quantity. No, I just knew that not having her to goof around with would be tough.

And here we are five weeks later, and it seems to be getting tougher. Maybe that's because of the heaping intensity I've had in my professional life of late--not necessarily bad stuff, not necessarily stressful . . . just intense. I long for that great equalizer at my feet, my big furry black dog, or my little buddy, as I call her. 

I think part of this chasm that only seems to be deepening is that the, "I'll never get to see her again" reality is settling in. We were so interconnected, she was so rarely out of my sightline when I was home. It's as if someone removed all the trees in your neighborhood: You would notice, everytime your eyes focused outside.

Weekends are the hardest. I have plenty going on week-round, but part of a weekend's relaxation is living a dog's life, relishing in the fact that puppy is happy and sleeping, you nearby. A tired dog is a happy dog. A happy master has a tired dog! 

Maybe I should rent a dog. You can do that, you know, in New York I think. You can rent dogs by the hour, to walk and stuff. I don't know the details but can only say that I hope the rent o' dogs come from the shelter. I doubt they do. Some greedy fool probably has a bunch kenneled, and they get rented once a week at best or something.

There are too many dogs in this world. Have your pet spayed or neutered, for gosh sakes.

It's Valentine's Day. Maybe I have a Valentine, maybe I don't. Bernie was a 24/7 - 365 Valentine.

Below is a video from Public Enemy, the song is titled "Harder Than You Think" off their 2008 twentieth anniversary album, How You Sell Soul to a Soulless People Who Sold Their Soul? PE is my all-time fav and one of the most important music acts ever. It's just too bad the media and the masses just don't get it. Chuck D is one of the smartest and most progressive people on the planet. He does speaking tours, often through black student unions. Check him out. He should be our next president. Anyway, as you watch and listen to this, "learn the words, you might sing this," to quote a 1987 PE release--the lyrics are beneath the video. 

Happy Valentine's Day to you, and to Bernie, and to Chuck D, and to Flavor Flav, and to the S1Ws . . . and remember, if you don't stand for something you'll fall for anything.

What goes on?

Rollin stones of the rap game not braggin

Lips bigger than jagger, not saggin

Spell it backwards I'm a leave it at that...

That ain't got nothin to do with rap

Check the facts expose those cats

Who pose as heros and take advantage of blacks

Your governments gangster so cut the crap

A war goin on so where you at?

Fight the power comes great responsiblity

F the police but whos stoppin you from killin me?

Disasters, fiascos over a loop by pe

If it's an I instead of we

Believin tv

Spittin riches, bitches, and this new thing about snitches

Watch them asses move the masses switches

System dissed them but barely missed her

My soul intention to save my brothers and sisters

Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that

Screamin gangsta 20 years later

Of course endorsed while consciousness faded

New generations believing them fables

Gangster boogie on two turntables

Show no love so it's easy to hate it

Desecrated while the coroner waited

Any given sunday so where ya'll rate it?

With slavery, lynching, and them drugs infiltrated

I'm like that doll chuckie, baby

Keep comin back to live love life like I'm crazy

Keep it movin risin to the top

Doug fresh clean livin you don't stop

Revolution means change

Don't look at me strange

So I can't repeat what other rappers be sayin

You don't stand for something

You fall for anything

Harder than you think

It's a beautiful thing

Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that Get up Hard... just like that

So it's time to leave you a preview

So you too can review what we do

20 years in this business

How you sell sell soul, g wiz

People bear witness

Thank you for lettin us be ourself

So don't mind me if I repeat myself

These simple lines be good for your health

To keep them crime rhymes on the shelf

Live life love like you just don't care

5000 leaders never scared

Bring the noise it's the moment they fear

Get up still a beautiful idea

Get up

Throw yo hands in the air

Get up show no fear

Get up if ya'll really care

Pe 20 years

Now get up

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Get up

Hard... just like that

Media Darling

Chad & Bernie. St. Paul; March 2004.

Once again, Bernie is featured in the Tahoe Daily Tribune. Oh, it's been about 15 years between press coverages of her, though I did thank people for helping search for her in October in the Pioneer Press' "Sainted and Tainted" section, November 1, 2008:

Sainted

A huge “sainted” to my parents

and all the other wonderful

people in the Pleasant Lake

area of North Oaks who helped

me search for my awesome 15-

year-old Chow mix and best

friend, Bernie, on Oct. 25.

Special thanks to Darcy and

Fred, whose late-night call —

to tell me they’d found my dog

after she was missing 31 hours

— turned a terrible weekend

into the best weekend ever.

Thanks to you all, Bernie is

back home, happy and

healthy.

Chad Caruthers, St. Paul

Here we go with the font issue again. Anyway, click here for the Chad and Bernie article in Monday, February 9's Tahoe Trib. . . . But before you click the hyperlink, roll Eddie Vedder's "Hard Sun" below, from the Into the Wild original motion picture soundtrack (as opposed to the unoriginal motion picture soundtrack . . . whatev) and listen to it while you read the article. I include this song not only because the man has one of the best voices ever, but because this movie is a lot of nice things to me, including a splendid collage of man-nature-animal, and such things always make me think of Bernie, while alive and thereafter. The vid is homemade by someone, I think. Enjoy.

Etc., etc., etc. . . .

***Bernie listening to some tunes while laying on her bed. St. Paul, 2001.***

Whenever I paste into this blog, it wreaks havoc with the html, specifically the font and text size. Apologies, I've fixed it as best I can.

Also, given that I mentioned the Google ads that now appear on my blog, I must say, What's up with the peer pressure-nudity PSAs that are appearing here? Whatever I can do to help, I guess.

Saw another neighbor today, this time at a coffee shop in my 'hood. We chatted for a bit, then she asked, "How's Bernie?" So I told her.

Alas, lots of good dog things to talk about today. First, this little clip, taken from Sunday's St. Paul Pioneer Press:

Woman, 56, first to swim Atlantic

SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico — Jennifer Figge has become the first woman on record to swim the Atlantic Ocean by going the distance from Cape Verde Islands to Trinidad. Her crew plans to calculate the distance after the final leg of her swim. The 56-year-old American said Saturday that a bumpy flight over the Atlantic in the 1960s got her thinking she could don a life vest and swim if need be. She pushed off Jan. 12, swimming 19 out of 25 days while battling waves of up to 30 feet, to arrive Thursday. She now plans to swim to the British Virgin Islands. In late February, it's home to Aspen to reunite with her Alaskan Malamute. "It's time for me to get back home to Hank," she said Saturday.

Chad says: My kind of woman.

Second, also from Sunday's Pioneer Press, is a really moving story about a book, Saved: Rescued Animals and the Lives They Transform by Karen Winegar. I always said that Bernie and I both hit the lottery when I adopted her, and that story (and presumably the book) gets to of what I speak.

Third, if you live in the Twin Cities, consider checking this event out, from Mississippi Market: Healthful, Easy Cooking for Your Dog "Learn to cook healthful, easy, seasonal meals for your dog. In no more active time than 15 minutes every 2 to 4 days, you can prepare meals for your dogs that will improve their coats, lessen their thirst, and offer them a range of foods to delight and strengthen them. Bring a container to take home your dog's share of what we prepare. Jan Grover; Saturday, February 21; 1-3pm, call 651 310 9499."

I cooked for Bernie the last six months or so of her life (1lb ground beef, 1 can salmon, 1 bag matchstick carrots, 7 cups kibble, half a brick of cheddar), and I absolutely loved doing it. She loved it too!

Finally, hats off to Minnesota Public Radio's 89.3 The Current this morning, for playing last night's superb Radiohead performance at the Grammy's, with the USC marching band joining Thom and Johnny--don't know where the other lads were. Just when you think the band can't top itself, once again it does. Talk about a good way to chase the Monday blues away before they settle in. Gotta love Gwenyth and her gracious intro, too. Cheers. (Okay, the Grammys pulled the YouTube clips, something about claiming a copyright, so Gwenyth is gone but the music never dies. Please let me know if they strip the following vid, too.)

Burrito and Grapefruit

Good morning boys and girls. Have you noticed the advertisements now on the side of my blog, and how relevant they are to the text? That's Google for ya, pretty nifty. I also use Google Analytics to gather statistics on this blog, such as number of visitors. I'm not packing them in this week like I have in weeks past. So let's spice things up a bit with some music and video. This is just a beta, I'll do an "official" full-length one at some point, when I have gone through all my photos and the like. The site that I created the vid on, Animoto, is really cool, it's been out of beta for only a few months, so it's still getting better. Take a spin around it, you'll like what you see.

Marmaduke walked by my house about a half-hour ago, and the Shaggy DA a few minutes ago. Seriously. 

Bernie passed one month ago today, almost to the minute.

Hope you dig the vid, make sure you have your comp's sound on:

9.94

***This is Bernie hanging out in the kitchen. While not the greatest photo, it aptly shows her sad little look--it's just the way she looked! Amazing I could ever leave the house. 2004.***

I just finished watching ER, one of the three TV shows I watch (I mentioned another in a previous post. Can you guess what the third show I watch is?). I've watched it since the beginning, and if you've haven't had ER on your must see TV list for the past fifteen years, you've missed out on truly some of the most mesmerizing moments on the tube ever. This is the show's final season.

The first episode ran on September 19, 1994. I adopted Bernie on September 25, 1994. 

It's a delicate balance when you have a dog that is truly your best friend, a balance between maintaining your dog's life to her and your satisfaction and maintaing your own life to your satisfaction. Bernie had these big ol' lips that contributed to her look, which was one of a sad puppy dog's face. That look could freeze your feet and heart as you walked out the door, leaving her behind. I made sacrifices, yes, but I also lived my life, confident that the quality of our time spent together compensated for any moments of lacking quantity. For sure, though, our quantity of time together never lacked for long.

Sometimes, I'd get restless, wishing I could do this or that but instead putting Bernie first. I didn't view her as a restriction. I did see it as a duty, a pleasant duty. Truth be told, this duty probably prevented me from straying too often to the, um, more rambunctious sides of life. As Bernie became older and I'd obviously had her for longer, sometimes I'd yearn for more freedom. However, I stuck to my duty, out of love and out of fear, fear that if I lessened my committment I'd have regret when she passed. 

Thankfully, I have no regret--not for how much time and energy I gave her nor for how much time and energy I gave the rest of my life. While she laid on the very couch I'm sitting on now during the hour or so before I took her to the vet to put her on the path to Puppy Heaven, I pet her and said, "We made it, buddy. We made it." 

Those words were for both her and my ears.

Pack of Three

***BFFs: Bernie and Poochie, about a month before Poochie passed away. May, 1997; Lake Tahoe***

When you have a dog and you get another dog, then you have two dogs. And there's always a question of whether said dogs will get along. Poochie was 11 when I got Bernie, and she'd always been an "only dog." She and Bernie were introduced at the Lake Tahoe Humane Society, and there was no blood bath, but you don't know what's going to happen once you put two under one roof. Regardless of the two dogs' temperaments, they will have to establish a pecking order, which can be a lengthy process. I now know of ways to assist in this process, but I didn't back then. I just brought Bernie home, and there they were! Figure it out, girls.

Bernie had a tumultuous puppyhood before I adopted her at eight months. The details I do not know, but she hated people and literally put her tail between her legs and backed into a corner upon hearing any loud noise. I believe, and I will find out soon for sure, that Bernie's Pet of the Week ad said she was abused, which I believe. She was quite the paranoid freak for a long while after I adopted her. So, for that reason I think she was grateful to have another dog in the house to mimic, and a very calm mentor Poochie was at that. I'm certain the young pup brought new life and energy to Poochie. And yes, they established who was the alpha rather early on: Bernie walked over to Poochie's food bowl on day two or three at her new home, started to eat, and Poochie got up, bolted over, and let a sharp growl out toward Bernie. Bernie backed away, never to step near the Sheepdog's food bowl again!

Interestingly, though, Bernie used to try and display dominance over me, generally via climbing on my back if I was kneeled down or some such thing. Bernie is female, so this was clearly dominant behavior. For the same reason, she would snap at me in her younger years when I stood over her. As time went on, however, when she'd try to climb on me, I'd grab her and playfully pin her down, then stand over her and say, "I'm the alpha! I am king!" 

That'll learn her.

Squirrelly

***Bernie burying a bone. St. Paul, September 2004***

That's squirrel-ly. Properly spelled, as in the headline, it looks ridiculous, doesn't it?

One day, and this had to be in the spring of 1995 or so, when Bernie was just over a year old (note: I lived in seven different dwellings the first three years I was in Tahoe, so I have a difficult time remembering exactly when I lived anywhere!), her and I piled in my Saab to run some errands. I guess Poochie was in the car too, I don't recall. So we're about a half mile up Kingsbury Grade, which means a half mile up from lake level, sitting at an intersecting road waiting to turn onto Kingsbury, to go home to Elizabeth and my "mansion." Finally, a break in the traffic, so I stepped on the gas, took a right turn, and heard a ruckus from the back seat. I turned around just in time to see Bernie leaping out of the rear window, while my bitchin' Saab was in full driving mode.

She was chasing a ground squirrel. 

She landed fine, raced across Kingsbury, which is a main mountain pass road, thus busy, and ran for it through a parking lot. From the day she was born till the day she died, Bernie had no concept of the power and threat of automobiles.

Have you ever played with mercury? Kids, don't try that at home, but most people 30+ have had some giggles squishing mercury in science class. It's like this uncatchable mass, can't be tamed. Well, that was what Bernie was like the first, oh, eight years of her life. At this point, she was only 1 plus some, and there was no use--I couldn't catch her. She pretty much stayed in the same (huge) parking lot, though, so I'd drive along side her saying, "Bernie wanna go for a ride? Bernie wanna go for a ride? Dammit, Bernie, get into the car!" Her big floppy ears would perk up, her head would tilt to the side as she looked into my eyes and listened to my cries--then she'd bolt off again.

I love dogs.

This went on for a couple hours, at least. Finally, though, she surrendered, jumping into the Saab. She never caught the squirrel and never rode with the car window completely down again until she was about 13 years old and had lost 25 percent of the strength in her rear legs.

I'll post a pic when I get home.