I have geriatric dogs. A chart I found online this week says they’ve breezed past adulthood right into the geriatric stage, and I have to admit—the word “geriatric” made me giggle a bit at first. It conjured nursing homes and bed pans, not my feisty little pups.
But then I cleaned up Abner’s fourth pile of shit this week, watched him sleep through Gavin’s screams of delight during playtime (Abner’s gone almost completely deaf), and listened to Daisy yelp when her leg cramped after lying down too long, and realized they’re not pups anymore. And rarely are they feisty. My dogs ARE geriatric. All of a sudden they’re nearing the finish when so many things are just beginning in our lives.
They were our babies before we had babies. They were there for the beginning of our marriage, our first house, our first “real” jobs, our first child. I just hope we get a few more firsts with them, even if they are geriatric.