Old Dog, No Tricks

Gee, I didn't think the life of a domestic animal was really that bad.  But hey, at least my dog has good taste.  Imagine the horror of seeing him passed out amidst a sea of Natural Light cans.

I've started to envy Sebastian's simple life whenever I have a bad day. He didn't have to deal with layoffs. He's never experienced heartache.  He always has food on the table.  Granted, he has more bad hair days than any woman could tolerate, but he's too simple minded to care.

Ahh, what I would give for a day in the life of a dog.  But, not just any dog.  My dog.  My deaf, ten-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who just doesn't give a crap anymore.

I'd wake in the morning to the pangs of hunger, eat breakfast, lap up some stagnant water, head outside to take care of business and then head back to bed. The remainder of the day, I'd move from bed to bed, snoop for trash, bask in the sun, sit on laps and eat again. 

Sounds relaxing, eh?

When Sebastian was younger, his life was much more "exciting."  He had boundless energy, went to the door every time he heard a doorbell ring (even if it was on TV), was excited about sitting on people's laps, vigorously opposed baths, inhaled his food like a champ, demanded endless amounts of play time and sprinted around the house like a crazy man.  As he's gotten older, his playful puppy filter has slowly disappeared. Sure, here and there we will catch glimpses of his former love-ball self, but nowadays he's truly an old dog.  But we still love him to death. If he were human, I know he'd be wearing lots of thin, pastel-colored outfits.  But, instead he just acts like the cranky senior citizen he is. 

He farts. A lot.  He doesn't like walks.  He sleeps 18 hours a day.  He doesn't like children.  He growls persistently when he wants something.  His diet is soft, canned food.  He doesn't ask to sit on the couch anymore, he just does. He takes heart burn medicine.  He disregards every command we ever taught him.  He drives 20 miles under the speed limit. Wait, no. That's my Dad.  And, God forbid you alter his daily routine, you will hear about it. Which takes us to the picture.  

This past Friday, Jeff had people over to celebrate the end of summer.  The mud room, where we keep one of Sebastian's beds, was used to store cold beer.  We moved the bed into my Mom's study so that Sebastian wouldn't totally freak.  Well, Sunday rolls around and the empty beer bottles are still in the mud room.  And the bed? Still in the study.  Part of Sebastian's morning routine is to rise from his bed in the family room, eat a Pepcid AC, then move to the bed in the mud room while he rests and waits for his breakfast.  My Mom says if she is too busy to get his food right away, he gets up and peeks around the corner to stare at her in his passive aggressive way of saying (in his best Will Ferrell impression), "Ma! The meatloaf!"

Now, word on the street tells me that on Sunday, an enraged Sebastian could not tolerate one more day of this displaced bed nonsense and exploded into a fury of barking early in the morning.  Definitely a code red.  My Mom took action and grabbed his bed from the study and squeezed it back into the mud room amidst the six packs of empty beer bottles.  Order restored, Sebastian hopped into the bed and went back to sleep.  

Then she took his picture and sent it to all of us. Here's how I imagine her mindset at the time.  "You disrupt my early morning? Fine, I'll make you look like a drunk." When Sebastian woke up, rumor has it he growled something that resembled, "Touche, Anne. Touche."

The reality of an aging dog bites.  Maybe it's finally time to exchange his royal blue harness for a pastel purple one.