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.